VEE 𑣲⋆｡˚

[tchetcheca]

bruh I need to be HELD BACK

condescending praise is genuinely doing something to my brain chemistry, like am I going insane or am I going insane

and I can't even blame ovulation this time cause im on my period, so ig the freakness is just running through my veins 24/7

[kittentoki]

zuko was not expecting this when he returned from his important trip regarding political matters that he did not really care for... okay, that’s a lie. he totally did. it’s exactly what he desired when his staff delivered the box of new makeup he purchased during his overseas travel.

returning to your shared chambers to find you settled in front of the mirror, brush in hand as you layered a deep red shade of red to your lips had him secretly holding back a smile.

“enjoying your new set?”

your gaze shifts from your reflection in the mirror to his figure leaning against the wall with his arms folded to his chest.

“not as much as you appear to be.”

the smile bloomed across his features, a small shy dimple appeared on the right side of his face “i can’t help it, you always look so gorgeous.”

you scrunch your nose, affected “well aren’t you a sweetheart.” you rise from your seat to approach him and he stands up properly, looking down at you with an intense gaze.

he reached a hand to your cheek, caressing your skin “you’re so beautiful.”

you hum and take hold of the hand he placed on you “as are you,” you press a kiss to the palm of his hand. when you pull away, you glance down to find a vibrant stain on his skin. there’s a pull to the corner of your lips and you look up to meet his eyes, an obvious scheme forming in your mind based on the smirk and glint in your eyes.

“oh no—“

with a giggle you guide him to your bed, pushing him down onto the mattress but not before you undid the top part of his clothes. you mount him instantly, your lips pressing against his with excitement. almost like a blur, you move with quickness as you plant a kiss on his mouth, his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, his jaw, his throat, his pecs, his abs...

zuko resigned in his role as your canvas, his hands holding your hips against his as you flurried around his face and body. you pulled back for a moment to survey your work, your eyes rummaging over his skin which was now decorated with a matching deep shade of red as the one you printed on his hand earlier. your consensus was that zuko looked gorgeous covered in your marks.

"i wish could burn this image into my mind forever," you murmur as you lead down once more to capture his lips with yours. this time you take your time to carefully move your mouth against his, softly moaning into his mouth as your tongue grazed his. you feel him press you down harder against him, and a smirk threatens to overtake your visage. he got hard from just you marking him with your lipstick and kissing him...

you pull away one more and laugh when he tries to chase your lips with barely open eyes, he looks utterly blissed out and you were having so much fun teasing him. you tapped his chest to make him lie down once more—

"i've got more colours to try out, just sit pretty for me, baby."

© 𝐊𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐊𝐈 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔, 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 —all content rights belong to kittentoki. do not plagiarize any works and do not repost or translate onto any other sites.

[pinkmirth]

𝒮𝐼𝑀𝑀𝐸ℛ.ᐟ ❤︎ ft. firelord zuko!

𝒞𝒪𝒩𝒯𝒜𝐼𝒩𝒮 ⨾ ( 900+ ) words of . . . nsfw, husband!zuko x watertribe!wife!reader, canon-divergent universe, established relationship, teasing, size difference, zuko has an edging kink, missionary, finger sucking, belly bulge, slight use of firebending, use of pet names, explicit language, lowercase intended, minors shoo! 𝓂𝓎 𝓁ℴ𝓋ℯ 𝓁ℯ𝓉𝓉ℯ𝓇.ᐟ ۶ৎ here i present, my first tribute to the fire lord! one look at the new-and-improved zuzu and i lost ittt >.< omg he’s never looked better . i just had to put out somethin’ spicy for this delicious man in the meantime, until the real firecracker bun finishes baking! art credits here! thank you for reading, and please enjoy! ❤︎  𝐼𝒩𝒮𝑃𝒪 𝑇𝑅𝒜𝒞𝒦.ᐟ ( ♫ ) lovely thang, kut klose ⨾ earned it, the weeknd ⨾ body smile, dvsn  ⨾ hold on, the internet

zuko fucks you so, so slow. takes his sweet time, moves with a maddeningly balmy heat; much like the kind that smolders beneath the callous of his palms. it's a slow-burning ember that simply refuses to catch fire, no matter how much you ache for even the littlest flame — ache for him. 

his long, dark hair spills over his broad shoulders, like ink bleeding into tainted water, and he peers at you through that swaying, silken curtain, eyes ambered with pure lust. he uses the muscled brawn of his frame to keep you pressed into imported satin mahogany sheets, as if he could live forever in the saccharine pulse of your dripping cunt. 

or, perhaps not. maybe, he simply finds there to be more pleasure in the hunger of a good tease. it’s sudden when he pulls out, drenched to the very base of his dark, downy hair, wettened in the sweet overflow of your juices. the silence that follows the ‘shlick!’ is heavy and warm, filled only with the sound of synchronized breathing. in the stillness, every small sensation feels magnified. cool air against buzzing skin, the steady rhythm of your heartbeats, the gaping emptiness within you that zuko left in his wake.

there he lingers at the precipice for what you consider to be a torturous eternity — glides his heavy, pulsing length along the weeping seam of your slit, drags the throbbing underside along your slickest folds in a way that teases your entrance; he enters just a fraction, his shallow promise of depth before he withdraws entirely. you’re left terribly hollow. 

“you want it, huh?” he taps along the hypersensitive bud of your sticky clit with his swollen, mauve tip, gaze narrowing whenever you whine. “need to be fucked so badly, don’t you? aw, my poor baby . . .”

through the gaze of his golden, unmarred eye, you’re a vision of beautiful undoing beneath him; all breathless and pleading for the friction he so carefully withholds. crystalline tears trace the flushed curves of your warm cheeks, salt meeting skin. zuko’s large hand moves to find purchase, his pale fingers contrasting sharply as they bloom against the rich, warm brown of your hip, gripping you with possession. 

you begin to press onto him, wiggling your round, pretty ass against his bobbing cock until he’s forced to rock back and meet your rhythm. 

it’s then that the tether snaps, leaving him helpless against the both the gravitational pull of your plush, pouted lips, and the siren call of your sweet pussy; he catches your hips in two sweltering palms, unable to endure another second of the space between you.

finally, finally, he sets away his restraint. he’s toyed with you long enough . . . who is he to deny you now?

when zuko eventually flips you onto your tautly-arched back and sinks home — tilting his strong hips at that precise, devastating angle — he presses in past smooth, squeezing walls and fills you to the very brim; a thick, sated pressure with a weight leaves you impossibly stretched around the girth of his hard cock.

he devours your pitched sounds in a deep, swollen kiss, his tongue sliding into the cavern of your mouth to suckle on your own with a heavy, shameless wetness. the low, messy sound of him drinking you in is syrupy and loud, a slick noise that echoes in the quietness of him swallowing up your gasps. 

you pull away for air and reach up, desperate to claw at him, your soft palm sliding over the firm ridges of his toned stomach until your fingers trace the jagged, fleshy bloom of the lightning scar centered at his solar plexus. it’s a map of his old pain, vibrating against your skin as he lets out a long, shuddering exhale that tells you he’s wholly, devoutly, surrendered his fire and found his personal heaven inside of you. 

“mmgh, zuko — finally . . .”

he only chuckles, a low vibration that resonates through the saffron-spiced air of his bedchamber, his head dipping low. the raised crimson dermis of the burn mark around his eye brushes against your temple; a rough, familiar texture that only adds to the delicious friction when his forehead brushes yours. 

he rocks into you with such a torturous slowness that it feels as though he isn’t fucking you at all. you’re practically sobbing for him to just move.

your spirited husband, an ever so patient man, only chuckles, shushing your dulcet whines with the prod of two thick, pale fingers. they settle onto the pink of your tongue and sink further into the velvet of your mouth, claiming it as his own. he watches intently, with beautifully sharp molten eyes as your spit pools and gathers, slicking the width of his middle and index until they glisten.

“don’t worry, my love,” he coos, feeding you a deep, heavy thrust that distends the soft curve of your belly from within. his free hand descends, palm blooming with the slightest flicker of ignited heat as he presses that simmering touch over your pelvis, marking the bulge where he passes in and out of you.

he fights the spread of a grin as you moan and gag around his fingers simultaneously, your breath hot and frantic against his palm. “i’ll make you feel so fucking good, i promise . . . you’ll forget you ever had to wait.”

© 𝒫𝐼𝑁𝐾ℳ𝐼𝑅𝑇𝐻.ᐟ ⸻ all rights reserved! do not steal, plagiarize or repost any of my works. reblogs are highly appreciated! please and thank you! ❤︎

[kamiflix]

▶︎︎ Jealous Type (starring . fire lord zuko)

synopsis . You clearly don’t understand who it is you belong to, so the fire lord makes things a little clearer for you via drawing his name out into that sweet cunt of yours. content . afab!reader, oral sex (f!receiving), possessiveness, royal advisor!reader (ib: my dearest @yenayaps), fingering, pet names, faint manhandling, he’s kinda feral, slight corruption kink, praise, etc.

author's note: we’re all obsessed w tht one edit, no?

“I simply don’t believe I serve much purpose to you anymore, my lord—“

“It’s only us in here, I’ve said many times before that you don’t have to call me that.” Zuko muttered, annoyance etched into his every unfairly pretty feature.

You struggled to meet eyes or reason with him, but continued in your rant nonetheless. “—You hardly heed the advice I give you, despite it being my sole purpose to you, and I've reason to believe I would be a better fit for another nation. I’ve received word from the Earth Kingdo-“

Amber eyes snap up from the floor and directly onto you, his body pushing him up from his throne to stand up straight as he scoffs, “What?”

You're hesitant to lift your chin and face him head on, gulping as your words jumble up at the center of your throat. Carefully, you lift your gaze slowly and allow yourself a moment to naturally collect both yourself and your thoughts. Patiently uttering, “My lord, please stop interrupting me. I-“

Doing the exact opposite once more, “No, seriously, what?”

You huff, meeting his eyes with your brows all furrowed. After a short pause, “What do you mean what?”

Zuko's eyes appear to be softer on you as he departs from his throne and nears you, “You’re leaving me?”

The question and the way it exits his lips is enough to make your body feel hot for reasons unbeknownst to you. Thus causing you to shoot your eyes off to the side, “W-Well, I was considering-“

“That won’t do.” Flies right out of him without second thought, as if he no longer wanted the concept to be entertained or considered at all.

You return your full attention to him with widened eyes, unconsciously stepping forward, “Pardon?”

Zuko gestures a hand out with a shake of his head, “Come here."

As you obediently move to do as you're told, you feel the intensity of his eyes raking over your frame, the heat behind them easily carving itself into your very being. Fuck if it wasn't as intimidating as ever to be alone with him like this, no matter how many times you've found yourself in this exact position in the past.

He's moved to the side of his throne and directs you towards it, ignoring the confused looks you throw his way, “Sit. I’ll show you what other purposes you serve for me.”

Everything was happening much too fast.

The man whom you’ve been diligently serving for the past few years was requesting your consent to touch you intimately so suddenly that you felt as though you were dreaming.

It’s not like you haven’t imagined it before—hell, look at him! Everyone in the Fire Nation has indulged in a fantasy or two, it’d be strange if they didn’t. Especially if they were in your shoes, being so close to him at nearly every waking hour and getting to know him on levels beyond regolness.

So when his lordship humbly requested that you sit yourself on his throne and let him give you a nice feel of what your purpose is to him, it was only natural that you succumbed to the years of not-so-hidden need that has been weighing itself on your shoulders.

Heart pounding in your chest, none of your imaginations of the past could ever quite compare to the real thing of watching the fire lord lower himself down to his knees, bring his hands to your legs, and steadily part them open whilst constantly whispering gentle confessions in hopes of insuring you're entirely comfortable with this.

Truth be told, he'd always had a bit of a crush on you—having taken quite the liking to you from the day he'd chose you to be his royal advisor.

It was an odd sensation for you to find yourself seated where Zuko typically commands the nation, especially with the way he'd loomed before you with a hint of delectable saliva building up at the corners of his mouth. You barely caught on to the way he'd asked you to undress yourself before him—to bare your body for his greedy eyes to take in—before his hands were virtually everywhere.

There was a sense of heat felt from his faintly shaking palms, as if this were the most nerve-wracking act he'd ever participated in. You were steady in your undressing, considering you needed some sort of moment to prepare yourself for what was to come.

By the time you found yourself naked—regal, advisory robes splayed out against his throne as your body sat all prettily perched upon it—Zuko was all but drooling. You'd seen his lordship make many expressions over the years but this—this was unlike anything you'd ever seen before.

And it was all for you.

In the next instance, Zuko was gripping onto your knees, letting his fingers touch with a certain firmness as he spread your legs apart. Your limbs felt mushy under his skin and you already felt your lungs struggling to maintain a steady flow of oxygen. You had an arm coming up to hide your flushing face before he'd even gotten anywhere with you and he couldn't help but crack a cheeky smile at the display.

Who knew his dutiful advisor—who'd just threatened to leave him mere moments ago, mind you—could make such cute expressions from the slightest of touches?

"Relax," Zuko cooed gently, leaning forward to lightly kiss at your inner thigh, "I'm only trying to help you understand your purpose."

Breath hitching, "My lord, I really don't think-"

His tongue rolls out along the inside of your leg and you flinch as if you'd never been touched before. This was the Fire Lord, after all. Having him like this-, watching him do something so obscene...

"You don't need to think," He hushes out to you, the curve in his lips felt right against your tensed skin, "Not now, anyway. Just feel. Can you do that for me?" It took you a few seconds but, eventually, you nodded your head. To which he cracks a smile, "Atta' girl."

Then his head traveled further up and you held eye contact with him whilst his mouth slipped over to cup the soaking lips of your cunt. Those same fiery amber-shaded eyes of his roll back almost instantaneously, a rumbling groan pouring out from deep within the pit of his stomach in reaction to the taste of you on his tongue.

And you expected him to let this go? As if.

You clasped your lip tightly in between your teeth, your hands moving out to grip onto the arms of the throne as you braced yourself, hips jerking forwards ever so slightly to meet the feel of Zuko's hot tongue. A sloppy trail of saliva is left in the wake of every flick from his oral muscle, the hum he lets out against you enough to have your legs squirming around under his touch.

There's a smooth sound of schliiiick that rings out though the throne room, the noise surely loud enough for someone beyond its large walls to hear. Not that you or him seem to care, though.

Whines 'n moans are easily pulled from somewhere in your throat as his mouth maneuvers suavely to capture the entirety of your saccharine taste onto the center of his tongue.

Your back soon slumps against the throne, leaving you to stare in awe at the starving lord of a man who's cravings could only be satisfied through the taste of your sloppy cunt. There's a feeling of paranoia haunting you from somewhere within your gut that at any moment now a person could knock on the throne room doors or simply burst right in with an urgent matter but, ask Zuko if he cares!

Spoiler alert: he doesn't.

The tips of his tongue dive and dip all around the very ends 'n ins of your pussy, lapping out the most provocative of gushes form deep within you. You're a blissed-out mess of moans before he even thinks to pull himself up for a moment to breathe. And by then, your hands have buried themself into his long lushes locks of hair, tugging and pulling at his head as your teeth tatter against themself in an honest attempt at maintaining even the slightest fracture of your composure.

Then Zuko's body shifts forward and suddenly his tongue his snaking its looong self past your folds, wetly spreading you open on it. Your back arches almost immediately and you think your eyes cross just as your fingers scrape over his scalp.

Zuko's head tilts ever so slightly to lick at your insides at a circularly different angle, tongue plucking itself in and out of your gushy entrance simply to have your arousal leaking all down the expanse of his jawline.

When the man tugs himself away to gasp, he's only diving back in half a second later to kiss over your clit and then smear the tip of his tongue around it—showcasing to you that his skills go beyond mere fire bending and that his tongue has learned how to bend the feel of a new element to you.

Something raw jumps out of your throat and you pant out his name whilst he shakes his head into you and then proceeds to respond to your calls by spelling his name out around your clit.

Then come his fingers—and fuck if they aren't farrr thicker than you were prepared for, initially prodding at your drooling hole, and then carefully pushing into you after a mere tease to that clingy ring of resistance he's met with.

Your lower lip pushes out and you moan just past it, earning his attention for the first time in a while as his eyes come up to find your lewdly-set expression.

"Ah," Using a free hand to wipe some of the slick from his mouth, Zuko moves up towards you and keeps his fingers working your insides, "Don't pout. You can take this much," He encourages, a second digit carefully slipping into you. "See? Two of my fingers, buried so deep inside you like that..." His words earn a particularly filthy squelch. "Shit, you should feel honored by this, sweetheart."

You manage a huff at that, nails chafing into the arm of the throne again, "Y-You and that damn-, ngh, honor..."

He snickers, his thumb poking forward to plumply round your clit, "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you don't feel honored to have me this devoted to you."

"Zuko," You moan instead of answering correctly.

Letting it slide due to his soft spot for you, he merely sighs. "Please understand that this is your purpose to me, not abandoning me to go whisper in the ears of Earth Kingdom fools." Zuko explains to you, voice coming out in warm waves against the crown of your ear, "Understood?"

You nod, "Y-Yes, Zuko."

His head cocks to the side, fingers jolting up against your slicked walls to curl, "You address me so formally any other time but now..." He pulls away a few inches to cast his eyes over your expression, fully appreciating how gorgeously you fall apart on just two of his fingers.

He can only begin to imagine how satisfying it would be to see you do the same on his cock. Fuck, you probably wouldn't even be able to handle that, would you?

No, but you'd damn sure try if he let you...

Meeting his gaze, "Yes, my lord." You correct in a short whisper.

For the first time ever, Zuko realizes the title doesn't sound so bad coming from you.

At least, not in this context since his cock promptly hardens through his robes in reaction to that sweet, sweet tone of yours.

He would've spelt his name out into your cunt and split you open on his fingers a long time ago if he knew this would be the result!

A smirk splays out across his wet mouth and he leans in, his breath mingling with your own, "Cum for me, my advisor. Show me where your loyalties lie."

That quickly sends you right over the edge, your cunt clenching and twitching all around his fingers as one of your hands move out to clutch onto his royal clothing.

Breathlessly puffing, "F-Fuuck.."

Zuko watches you closely the entire time, loving the way your thighs quiver, and how good your pussy feels releasing onto his hand.

Only leaning away as you're done to murmur, "See? Now, tell me again about leaving?"

(not proofread, GULP) || banner art from “Lady K and the Sick Man” || tags:

@stardewplz @muddiedlove @rain-market @mayashoee @kayxox123 @yoshinorecommends @whimsynojai @blcknebula @sukubusss @iiakithegoat 

@1ana22 @miss-f0rtun3 @helloxkittylo @p-plenitude @bunbun812 @cuffiescariche @ily24 @neoroneo88 @taemfvante @gracewinston

@shesthemanluver @kayxox123

[kamiflix]

▶︎︎ Legendary Lovers (starring . fire lord zuko)

synopsis . Overstim with your husband but he keeps accidentally setting things on fire because of it. content . afab!reader, masturbation (m!receiving), established relationship, improper use of fire bending(?), overstim, wife!reader, switching dynamics, bondage, pet names, nipple play (m!receiving), somewhat dom!reader, missionary, manhandling, etc.

“S-Shit,” Zuko huffed, hips insistent with their bucking as he uncontrollably drives the frustrated head of his weepy cock up into your hand.

You sat at his side with your eyes innocently watching as he fell apart entirely under your touch, “Does that feel good?”

He couldn't take his eyes off the way your fingers looked wrapped around his length, “Hhngh-, fuck.. So good,” He huffs, admiring how perfectly you jerked him off and struggling greatly with the bit of rope neatly tied around his wrists—which are positioned behind his back. “D-Don’t stop. Please.”

You squeeze at his base and feel how his veins pulse ‘n twitch against your palm, the tip of his cock a flushed shade of tanned red.

Then your gaze flicked up and you caught the way he threw his head back, letting the long, loose strands of his silky hair flutter all elegantly with the motion. There was certainly nothing more endearing than watching the fire lord come undone before you like this.

A slopped mess of slick cum keeps your hand steady with its slippery motions up 'n down his dick, his balls aching and heavy with need to release yet another load into your palm. You grin before silently leaning forward, letting your lips press into his chest all lightly as you hear him struggle with whines and grunts.

“Ah, your hand is always-, shit… s-s’soft..” Zuko mumbled, his abs tensing at the feel of your touch. Without warning, he nearly whimpers at the sensation of your lips cupping his nipple. “Oh God-,” Your husband's breathing tangles up in his throat, “Wait-, fuck.. Y’know I’m sensitive there, wait—“

“Mmnh..” You hum delightedly against him and let your hands pace quicken against his cock, feeling the entirety of his body heat up for a moment before he begins to twitch all over the place, his wrists fighting against the restraints keeping them in place.

This whole thing had been his idea. He'd asked you time and time again to tie him up and do whatever you want to him, but just like all the times in the past where this has been tried—he never seems to last too long before-

The smell of fumes hit your nose.

You pop your lips off his swollen nipples and halt your sucking for a moment just to look up at his teary-eyed face, admiring the pout he’s got on. “Zuko…” You purr with a slightly raised brow.

He angles his head back down to meet eyes with you, batting those dark pretty lashes at you as if he'd done nothing wrong, “Yes, love?”

“Are you burning through those ropes again?” You ask.

The fire lord shakes his head, “N-No..?”

“Then…" Your gaze narrows at him skeptically, "What’s that smell?”

Before he gathers his thoughts enough to answer you properly, you turn your head to see one of your nightstands on fire.

Damnit. That’s the third one this week!

Luckily enough for the both of you, the flame isn't as large as it'd been previously. Though, as you let your hand halt in jerking your lover off and try to pull away for a moment to go put the fire out, there's a stronger scent of fumes flying into your nose.

This time it's the smell of burning rope.

Followed by which is the sound of something snapping and suddenly—there's a pair of grabby hands meeting your arms and your body is being pushed right over.

A flutter of royal-red and gold fabrics scatter around your frame and drape your sides whilst your attention is redirected upwards. Panting above you is your needy husband Zuko, who's got his brows furrowed slightly and his eyes pleading as they land down on you, "Ignore it," He suggests.

You flash a confused look at him and then playfully swat at his chest, "I can't just ignore it, that's the third one this week!"

He shyly glances off to the side before muttering, "...So?"

"What do you mean so?" You scoff, "We'll have to rebuild the entire bedroom suite at this rate!"

His eyes find yours again and you feel his body coming closer to yours, flinching at the wet swipe of his drooling cockhead over your inner thigh as he adjusts himself. "You're the one who insisted on teasing me."

"You asked me to." You remind him.

"Well,” He frowns a little, “When I told you to use me, I was hoping..."

Your hands reach up to cup his face and pull him down impossibly closer—the warmth of his body enveloping you further. "Hoping what, my lord?" You whisper.

He shoots you a short-lived glare, "What'd I tell you about that?" You give him a cheeky smile and he rolls his eyes at it. "I was hoping you'd use me in here," To add emphasis to his words, his cock comes pressing against the soppy wet-spot in your panties.

"Zuko!" You gasp in surprise, earning a sleazy little smile from him.

Then comes a quick finger to swat that measly fabric out the way, his tip rushing to kiss the saturated lips of your cunt and smear the apart for entry.

Just before he can push into you, "Wait," You huff, "When and how did you break free?"

"Hm?” Zuko raises a brow, “Free of what?" He hums innocently.

Your expression is entirely unconvinced of his innocent act. Deadpanning, "You burned the ropes again, didn't you?"

Another smile paints into his perfect features before he grinds his hips down into yours, throbbing cock sliding ever-so-gracefully into you as if to distract you. Zuko leans down to your ear to whisper, "What ropes?" and you hear some sort of flame crackling in the distance.

He definitely just set something else on fire just from pushing himself into you, but it’s not like he gave you much room to care. Not with the way his dick felt easing your walls open and stretching you out in the same fashion you’d beg him to nearly every other night—if not every single night.

Surely the fire nation would be expecting an heir to the throne any day now. Though, you’re not sure this heir would come about with your bedroom in one piece…

Especially since Zuko has a bad habit of burning things when he cums.

(not proofread btw) || banner art by Rororogi Mogera || tags:

@stardewplz @muddiedlove @rain-market @mayashoee @kayxox123 @yoshinorecommends @whimsynojai @blcknebula @sukubusss @iiakithegoat 

@1ana22 @miss-f0rtun3 @helloxkittylo @p-plenitude @bunbun812 @cuffiescariche @ily24 @neoroneo88 @taemfvante @gracewinston

@shesthemanluver @kayxox123

first time writing outside the jjk fandom in years, if it's bad i'll just jump off a cliff sorry! <3

edit: more zuko here 😵‍💫

[cececherrie]

Shoto being beefier as an adult made him more... tempting.. to grab..

He's brewing some tea, it's a warm morning so he's just in some comfy shorts and no shirt, he's half asleep, basically bare, very vulnerable..

he rubs his eye, trying to rub the sleep away when he feels a smack to his ass, he's wide awake now, he tries to turn around but you forcibly keep him towards the counter, even bending him over it a bit as you grab at his man titties.

"what're you doing?" His voice is raspy and he has a curious tone.

hes shocked but your roughness and how forward you are at this early hour.

You giggle and rest your cheek on his shoulder blade.

"So squishy sho.." You mumble against him.

His face flushes red, he even feels his dick starting to strain against his shorts.

"Isn't it a bit early..?" He asks quietly, too tired to acknowledge his growing erection.

You shake your head with a hum, you press yourself into him more, grabbing at more.

One hand lets go of his tit and reaches back down to his ass, you grab and knead it just like you are with his chest, he groans you can't tell if he's enjoying it (he is) or if he's annoyed.

It's only when you slap it again and harder he gasps and throws you over his shoulder, hauling you back to bed.

the tea is long forgotten.

[itoshiabi]

The moment the match ends, the internet explodes.

One missed shot, that was all it took for people to suddenly forget who Rin Itoshi is.

The same people who used to worship him are now calling him "overrated," "washed," "selfish," saying he "choked under pressure"

Your blood boils instantly.

"What the hell is wrong with these people?!"

You're sitting on the couch in one of Rin's oversized shirts, aggressively typing replies with the determination of someone entering battle.

"He missed ONE shot." "Do you people think athletes are robots?" "Everyone else misses too, why are you acting like Rin committed a crime?"

You get more and more offended with every comment you read.

Meanwhile, Rin is still on his way home.

He expected silence, maybe disappointment because he already knows the internet is tearing him apart. He can imagine the headlines, the insults, the mocking edits.

Usually, he'd just deal with it alone. But the second he opens the front door—

"RIN!"

You storm toward him looking genuinely devastated.

His eyebrows furrow immediately. "...What happened?"

"What happened?!" you repeat in disbelief. "People are being horrible to you!"

Before he can even respond, you start ranting again.

"They're acting like you're not human! It was ONE shot! ONE! And now suddenly everyone thinks they can disrespect you?!"

Rin just stands there quietly while you continue rambling angrily.

Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes look watery from frustration and you're looking personally attacked by the comments.

And somehow… Rin completely forgets about the missed shot.

Because now all he can focus on is you.

The way you're pacing around the living room while holding your phone like it personally offended you, the way you keep defending him like your life depends on it, the way your voice shakes with genuine hurt for him.

"They don't even know how hard you work," you mumble sadly. "You were probably already upset and then they made it worse..."

Rin feels something tight twist painfully in his chest.

Not from the match or the comments.

From love.

Because instead of thinking about himself, he's suddenly staring at you like you're the most precious thing in existence.

You care this much, this deeply and for him out of all people.

How did he get so lucky?

"You should see the way I replied to them," you continue angrily. "Actually no, don't. I almost started fighting thirty different people."

"Almost?" Rin says flatly.

You look away.

"Okay maybe I did."

He exhales quietly through his nose.

God, you're too adorable, too sincere, too loving. He feels like his heart genuinely cannot handle it.

You're over here fighting strangers online with tears in your eyes because someone dared insult him.

Meanwhile the actual person who missed the shot is no longer sad at all, because now he's too busy staring at you with that intense, unreadable look in his eyes.

"What?" you ask, still pouting.

Rin suddenly pulls you against him, hard.

You yelp softly as he buries his face into your shoulder.

"...Rin?"

He stays silent for a few seconds. Then quietly—

"I don't care about the shot anymore."

Your expression softens instantly.

"...Really?"

"Yeah."

His arms tighten around your waist.

Because honestly? How is he supposed to feel miserable when someone loves him like this?

You get furious for him, you get sad for him.

You defend him like the insults are aimed at your own heart.

And Rin, someone who spent most of his life alone with his emotions, doesn't know what to do with that kind of love sometimes.

It overwhelms him in the best way possible.

"You're insane," he mutters against your skin.

You gasp dramatically. "For defending you?!"

"For caring this much."

"Well obviously I care this much," you say like it's the most normal thing in the world. "You're my boyfriend."

Rin closes his eyes.

God, he's so in love with you.

[yfel-axel]

[lonelyfooryouonly]

like animals.ᐟ gaang x reader

summary: the gaang admit they want you and decide to show you exactly how much.

warnings: sub!reader, fem!reader, orgy dynamics, multiple partners, oral sex, handjobs, throat fucking implied, oral receiving, praise kink, teasing, edging, orgasm denial, temperature play, ice play, sensory overload, rough kissing, gagging, degradation themes, punishment but no reward, consensual dominance, breast play, nipple stimulation, clit stimulation, messy kissing, cum play, sexual tension, power dynamics, smut, MDNI;

wc: 2,5k

a/n: katara being both a top and the mastermind behind this was inevitable actually. thank you to my 💠 anon for suggesting this.

It started as a joke.

As a funny question about who was having crushes on who.

One thing led to another, and they all somehow told you it was you.

That was when silence fell over the entire room.

During your time together with the gaang, there had been awkward moments and silence before, yet nothing too out of the ordinary. But this one? It was different. More suffocating. More… intimate. You could feel the gazes on you now, watching you with focus and unreadable expressions.

Your heartbeat started increasing, your palms turning sweaty as your mind scrambled for something to say. You didn’t know what to do or where to go from this.

Of course, the attraction was both ways.

From the moment you met them and started spending time together, you felt it growing stronger with every passing day. But you never dared to say or do anything about it, too scared it would ruin the vibe between all of you.

The close relationships you had built with each of them mattered too much. You couldn’t throw everything away.

“We didn’t want you to feel weirded out, you know?” Katara finally broke the silence as she scooted closer, until her chest pressed against your arm.

“Oh, no, I would never—”

Your breath caught in your throat the moment her hand landed on your thigh.

“Is that okay?” Katara asked softly, fingers resting there carefully.

You could barely answer her.

You nodded quietly instead.

“I want to hear you talk,” she pushed gently, her hand slowly sliding higher up your thigh.

“It’s okay,” you breathed out shakily.

“You’re blushing like crazy,” Sokka snickered as he leaned back on his palms, eyes never leaving your form.

You threw him a glare, but the second your eyes locked with his, you couldn’t hold it for long.

Yeah.

For the first time, you actually felt intimidated by Sokka.

“Are you too hot right now?” Katara spoke again, making you look back at her. “You’re burning up,” she continued while your breathing turned more uneven with every second. “Should I help you?”

She offered it so casually, like she wasn’t making your entire body heat up with just a few touches.

You would’ve liked not to answer so fast. But you did.

She barely even managed to finish speaking before a nervous “yes” left your lips.

Toph and Sokka immediately giggled while Zuko and Aang sent you sympathetic looks, though neither of them looked much calmer themselves.

“Come here, then. Lay your back against my chest,” Katara instructed gently, though there was still firmness hidden beneath her soft tone.

You nodded quickly and shifted towards her, settling between her legs until your back rested against her chest comfortably.

“Tell me if it’s too much, alright?” she whispered near your ear.

Then you felt her hands slide downwards until they rested over your breasts beneath the dark green robe you were wearing.

Your breath hitched.

Katara hooked her fingers into the fabric and slowly dragged the material aside, exposing your bare breasts to the entire room. Cool air brushed against your skin immediately, making your nipples harden from the sudden loss of warmth.

Sokka whistled at the sight before Zuko nudged him hard in the side.

Aang stayed quiet, but his eyes were completely focused on your chest now.

“Nothing underneath?” Katara questioned with a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

“I— you all appeared out of nowhere— I didn’t have time—” you tried to explain quickly.

“She’s lying,” Toph interrupted with a grin.

Your face burned hotter as you looked down at your lap.

Katara raised a brow at you expectantly.

You took a deep breath as you closed your eyes, avoiding their eyes.

“I wore nothing on purpose,” you finally admitted on a quiet tone.

A moan instantly slipped from your lips when Katara’s hands squeezed your breasts, kneading the soft skin slowly.

“Oh,” she whispered against your ear. “Then maybe we’ll have to punish you for lying and for the other times you did things on purpose.”

Her fingers squeezed your nipples harder.

Then suddenly, you felt something freezing against your skin.

You jolted.

Looking down, you realized the tips of Katara’s fingers had turned icy cold, frost slowly forming against your heated skin. The sharp contrast made your entire body squirm in her lap.

She kept rubbing your nipples between her fingers, making shaky cries leave your throat from both the sting and pleasure of it.

“Mhm— ah!”

Your head fell back against her shoulder.

“Need some warmth?” she teased softly.

Before you could answer, you heard heavy footsteps approaching.

You lifted your head slightly and saw Zuko walking towards you before lowering himself onto his knees between your legs.

His large hands rested carefully against your knees first before slowly sliding upwards over your skin.

“That okay?” he asked quietly, eyes fixed on yours while waiting patiently for your answer.

You nodded automatically.

Katara immediately pressed colder fingers against your nipple in punishment for your non-verbal reply, making you jolt with a whimper.

“Yes! Yes, it’s okay— I’m sorry,” you gasped out quickly.

Zuko’s lips curled into a small teasing smirk before he slowly pushed aisde the material of your robes, completely revealing your legs along with your undergarments.

Then his palm slowly went between youe legs, pressing directly against your clothed core.

Your hips jerked forward instinctively at the warmth of his hand against your sensitive heat.

Katara’s lips brushed against your ear at the same time, making another shiver run through your body.

You had Katara’s cold hands on your breasts and Zuko’s warmth pressing down on you through the material, the contrast making your head spin.

You were so lost in the moment that you didn’t even notice Aang and Sokka stepping closer until they settled beside you on either side.

“Gonna help us out a little too, right?” Sokka asked with a grin.

“If you want to, of course,” Aang added with a soft voice, offering a nervous smile.

How could you even refuse them?

“I’d love—mhm— love to,” you say, a lot breathier than intended.

Sokka’s grin widened after hearing your reply. He then took your hand that rested on Katara’s leg, while Aang carefully lifted your other hand, fumbling slightly with his trousers.

Normally, you probably would’ve giggled at how awkward he looked for a second. But Zuko and Katara already had you dizzy from the overwhelming contrast of hot and cold sensations moving through your body.

You let both boys guide your hands where they wanted them, your eyes slightly widening when you saw them pulling out their half-hardened cocks.

Sokka was bigger than you expected, not overly thick but long enough to make your throat tighten. Aang was thicker, with more prominent veins running along his length, making you wonder how would it feel inside you.

Both of them were already leaking precum, feeling their wettnes the moment your fingers wrapped around them. Quiet hisses and groans filled the room as you started moving your hands slowly, thumbs spreading the slick fluid over their tips before stroking up and down carefully.

Sokka’s hand quickly caught your wrist, encouraging you to pump him faster, while Aang seemed to enjoy slower movements more.

So you tried your best to give both of them what they wanted.

But it was hard to stay focused.

Katara was still kneading your breasts like they belonged to her, earning soft whimpers from you every few seconds before icy jolts shot through your body whenever her cold fingertips brushed over your sensitive nipples too harshly.

At the same time, Zuko’s palm kept rubbing over your clothed core, thumb brushing your clit, pressing down and spreading his warmth all over, making your hips twitch forward helplessly.

When he finally stopped moving and pulled his hand away, you almost whimpered at the loss. But then your gaze dropped towards Toph, who was crawling towards you with a grin spread across her face.

“What—”

“Shh,” Katara cooed softly into your ear, her warm breath brushing your skin and making your heart race even faster. “It’s okay.”

Toph reached you and immediately pushed your legs apart wider while Zuko’s hand suddenly caught your chin, forcing your attention back onto him instead.

You blinked in confusion at first, only for your breath to catch when you realized he was freeing his cock too.

Slowly, carefully, he guided the tip against your parted lips.

“Just a little?” he asked, voice low as the tip brushed against your lower lip.

“Yes,” you breathed out quickly before Katara could punish you again for staying quiet.

That was all Zuko needed.

He pushed into your mouth too fast at first, making you gag immediately as tears burned at your eyes. He muttered a quick apology under his breath before pulling back slightly to let you breathe. Then he moved again, slower this time, more careful. Though you could still tell he wanted to go faster.

Your watery gaze dropped towards Toph, who was already pulling the rest of your clothes away completely. The second she exposed your cunt, her fingertips slid through your folds curiously before she chuckled softly at how wet you already were.

Your hips instinctively moved towards her touch, the sudden movement making you gag around Zuko again.

Toph only grinned wider at the sounds.

She lowered herself between your legs completely before hooking them over her shoulders.

Then her mouth was on you.

The first slow lick along your folds made your entire body shake. A second later, she sucked harshly at your clit, earning louder muffled cries from your throat around Zuko’s cock.

Katara kept whispering soft praises into your ear while stimulating your nipples relentlessly. They were probably swollen and red by now from how much attention she gave them, but the sting only turned you on more.

Your grip around Sokka and Aang loosened slightly as your focus completely shattered from all the sensations hitting you at once.

Zuko thrusting into your mouth.

Toph licking between your legs like she was starving.

Katara torturing your sensitive chest.

Sokka noticed immediately.

He firmly grabbed your wrist and guided your hand faster along his length, using your grip to help himself chase his release.

Aang stayed gentler instead.

He slowly rocked into your hand while one of his palms moved into your hair, carefully massaging your scalp and trying to comfort you despite how overwhelmed you already looked.

The room slowly filled with sounds.

Your muffled moans.

Sokka’s groans.

Aang’s shaky breaths.

Zuko’s rough grunts.

And the wet slurping noises coming from between your legs every time Toph sucked harder at your clit.

Meanwhile, Katara stayed steady behind you through all of it, paying attention to every reaction your body gave her. Every twitch. Every gasp.

Every tear gathering at your eyes whenever Zuko pushed too deep into your throat or Toph sucked your clit too harshly.

At one point, your eyes fluttered shut completely.

There were too many sensations at once. Too many hands touching you everywhere — your breasts, your waist, your stomach, your thighs.

“I’m close,” Zuko suddenly grunted.

Your eyes opened halfway.

Steam curled faintly from his skin and through his nose, while veins stood out sharply along his neck as his thrusts became rougher and sloppier.

Then, with a sharp breath, he finally pulled out and spilled over his own palm instead.

You inhaled deeply the second your mouth was free, finally able to breathe properly again—

—but the relief barely lasted two seconds.

Katara’s hand grabbed your chin firmly and turned your head towards her before she crashed her lips against yours.

The kiss instantly turned messy.

Teeth clashing. Lips biting.

Saliva slipping down your chin as she kissed you greedily, swallowing every shaky whimper that left your throat. At some point, her hand slid back down between your thighs, fingers pressing directly against your clit while Toph kept licking at your folds below.

Toph hummed against you, tightening her grip around your thighs.

You moaned louder, hips moving faster now until you were practically grinding your pussy against Toph’s face.

Your toes curled hard and a hot feeling started tightening inside your stomach, growing stronger with every touch, every movement, every hand on your body.

Then suddenly, another hand tilted your chin upwards.

Aang.

He lowered himself closer before pulling you into another kiss immediately after Katara let you go. You thought he would be a bit more composed, but with the way his tongue pushed into your mouth desperately… it was far from that.

Your hand still stroked him through the kiss, feeling him twitch harder and harder in your grip. He whimpered against your lips, both hands tangling into your hair as he pulled you closer.

The kiss quickly became sloppy and desperate. Then his whole body tensed suddenly.

You felt hot cum spill over your hand while his movements faltered completely. Small apologies left his lips between kisses, breathless and embarrassed.

You couldn’t help smiling faintly against his mouth.

But before the moment could last, another strong hand wrapped gently around your throat, pulling you away from Aang.

Then Sokka kissed you next.

He no longer needed help to finish as he did the work by himself since you were so lost in the moment.

Your jaw hurt and your lips were completely swollen because of the kissing. You were still trying to focus on reaching that feeling that felt so close.

You let out a moan as you let Sokka’s tongue leave your mouth, while your hips rose up to meet Toph faster. But before you can feel that sweet pressure finally snap, you heard Katara’s voice behindyou.

“Stop,” her voice came out strong and firm, making you shiver.

Toph’s movements slow down as she leans back, while Sokka’s mouth leaves yours.

“But—” you try to complain.

“Where would be the punishment if we let you get what you want?” she smiled at you, but her eyes gave you another message… one that stirred something in you. Something heavy and dark and… curious.

You’ve never thought you’d enjoy feeling so many hands on you, so many mouths, so many bodies… but you did, and you wanted to see how far this will go.

Katara patted your leg to get up, and you tried, but you almost fell due to your wobbly legs, yet Aang moved faster and caught you in his strong arms.

“Easy,” he whispered in your ear, making you look up at him, seeing how fond he was looking at you. He had that kind smile on his face.

Before you can even thank him, you heard Katara’s voice behind you, sending shivers down your spine.

“Now… let’s see how pretty you can bend.”

[cumironi]

— my boyfriend, his stupid plants, and that bitch with the bangs

feat. nanami kento

summary. you don’t get jealous — people get jealous of you. so why are you crying in a cinema bathroom over nanami kento explaining photosynthesis to another girl? after an emotional meltdown worthy of an award, nanami steps up to prove you’re his priority—setting boundaries, choosing you loudly, and holding you through every tear and tantrum. slowly, painfully, beautifully, you relearn what it means to be loved without having to perform for it.

triggers/warnings. non-sorcerer au x college au, jealousy, emotional breakdown, crying in a public bathroom, mild emotional manipulation (unhinged brat behavior), swearing, threats of violence (mostly botanical-themed), possessiveness, and unhealthy coping mechanisms that eventually lead to healthy communication and comfort.

the day was offensively bright, the kind of sunlight that made glass buildings glitter like they were mocking anyone who couldn’t afford to exist beautifully, and you—obviously—were the exception; if the universe had taste, it would put a spotlight on you the moment you stepped out, and today felt like one of those days where the pavement should’ve rolled out a red carpet simply because your shoes touched it.

the campus was buzzing in that nauseatingly enthusiastic way students got after midterms, everyone acting like sun exposure and iced coffee was enough to cure the generational trauma of academia, and god, just breathing the same air as these people felt like charity work.

still, you strutted down the pathway leading to the campus café—miu miu cropped knit in a red so sinful it should’ve come with a warning label, the tiny matching buttons straining against the shape of your chest in a way you knew made nanami rub his forehead like he suddenly had a migraine from “dealing with you,” which translated directly to “you look too good and it stresses him out.” your black alaïa pleated mini skirt swayed with each unapologetically privileged step, wolford sheer tights hugging your legs like a second skin, white miu miu socks folded just right above your glossy chanel mary janes, each click of your heel on the pavement sounding like a verdict—everyone else was underdressed.

you held your iced latte—oat milk, two pumps of vanilla, and emotional superiority—raised delicately between manicured fingers as if the cup itself was beneath you, but unfortunately necessary for survival. the tiny vintage chanel handbag slung over your shoulder bounced against your rib as you walked, and you didn’t even bother pretending you were rushing because punctuality was for people with nothing better to do. truthfully? you didn’t even go to class today. like hell you were going to drag your soul out of your egyptian-cotton-bed cocoon before noon just to listen to some underpaid academic talk about things google could teach you in five minutes. but nanami didn’t need to know that. your boyfriend would give you that glare—the one that could make a country surrender—and you really weren’t in the mood to be lectured by the only man who could make discipline sound like intimacy.

you approached the café, a place plagued by the aesthetic curse of trying too hard to look indie and failing spectacularly. the outdoor seating was crowded with students who thought reading murakami made them profound, but your eyes zeroed in on the table by the glass wall—the round one far too small for six people, which was exactly why those idiots chose it. gojo’s white hair was like a flag of chaos even from a distance, geto lounged like the cult leader he could easily become, shoko looked chronically done with everyone including herself, and haibara radiated optimism like a deranged labrador. but none of them mattered the second you saw nanami’s back.

the black short-sleeved knit polo you picked for him stretched over his shoulders like the fabric was praying for mercy, the sleeves hugging his biceps tight enough that your teeth tingled with the urge to leave evidence. his arm rested on the table, forearm flexed casually, veins visible—disgustingly attractive. he sat so straight, so composed, like he personally invented posture and everyone else should pay him royalties. even from behind, you could sense that irritating calm aura of his—your own personal grounded planet you orbited, even if you’d rather die than admit it out loud.

you didn’t slow down. you didn’t greet them like a normal person. no, normalcy was too cheap for you.

your free hand slid onto nanami’s shoulder the moment you reached them, fingers pressing into the warm, firm muscle like you were checking if heaven was solid. you leaned forward just enough to cast your shadow across their conversation, smiling like a disney villain in silk gloves.

“afternoon, children,” you said, voice honeyed and teasing, because you knew how to command a room without even trying.

gojo looked up first, his grin instantaneous. “look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” he said. shoko muttered something you didn't bother to hear, but you were already sliding into place, which meant you didn’t have to answer.

nanami turned, eyes already giving away that quiet mix of exasperation and affection he reserved solely for you. you leaned down, pressed a kiss against his cheek like you were marking territory, murmuring, “hi, baby.”

he hummed low in his throat, one arm looping around your waist in automatic surrender. the other hand—warm, steady—rested on your thigh, thumb brushing over the sheer fabric of your tights like he was reminding you to behave, though you both knew that was a lost cause.

“you’re late,” he said quietly.

“i’m fashionable,” you corrected, twisting slightly so you could face the table, still perched neatly on his lap. “there’s a difference.”

gojo snorted into his drink. “yeah, about three hours’ worth.”

“you can count? proud of you, sugarcube.”

haibara laughed, bless his innocent heart, and geto just smiled behind his cup like he’d seen this play a hundred times before. nanami’s fingers tightened on your thigh, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you that the show had an audience.

you tilted your head, looking down at him. “you missed me?”

he didn’t look up, but the smallest smirk tugged at his mouth. “you were gone for four hours.”

“and that’s four hours too long,” you said, leaning in until your lips brushed his jaw. “don’t be shy, you can say it.”

his eyes flicked to you—sharp, restrained, golden under the café light. “behave,” he murmured, just for you.

you smiled sweetly. “no.”

shoko groaned. “if you two start making out, i’m leaving.”

“then leave,” gojo offered. “less witnesses.”

“you’re all disgusting,” shoko said flatly, sipping her drink anyway.

you grinned, cheek lean on nanami’s head. “we’re adorable.”

“you’re unbearable,” nanami corrected.

but his hand didn’t move from your thigh.

you basked in the warmth of him, the way his presence steadied you even as you tried to poke holes in it. he was too serious, too controlled, and you were everything he shouldn’t have fallen for—spoiled, dramatic, perpetually five minutes away from chaos. it wasn’t that you wanted to make him jealous or tired or undone. it’s just that you loved watching the cracks form in that composure. loved being the one person who could unmake him.

the conversation at the table moved around you—movie plans, class gossip, haibara’s endless optimism—but your focus stayed where it always did. the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you, the quiet flex of muscle under his sleeve, the pulse that beat steady against your thigh.

gojo squinted at you over the rim of his iced matcha like a nosy suburban aunt pretending to be subtle, which, obviously, he wasn’t. his sunglasses were perched unnecessarily on his head despite being indoors, because he had a disease called “attention-seeking,” and he leaned forward with that shit-eating grin that made you want to shove his face into the table.

“question,” he announced, finger pointed at you like a courtroom accusation, “why didn’t i see you anywhere on campus today? don’t tell me you skipped again.”

you didn’t react at first. you simply blinked, slow, turning your gaze towards him as if he had personally offended your bloodline. then, with the grace of a woman who knew silence was powerful, you dragged your eyes from gojo to nanami—very slowly—because if anyone was going to kill the mood, it was the tax-paying adult you were dating.

nanami’s profile was stoic, but his head turned just a fraction, not enough to be dramatic, just enough to say: i heard that. answer correctly if you value your life. his hand remained on your thigh, thumb frozen mid-stroke, waiting. he didn’t speak—nanami didn’t need to. his expectation sat in the air like a guillotine.

you shook your head quickly, too quickly, a little too eager to throw the lie forward before anyone could breathe. “no,” you said, voice falsely innocent, like a kid denying stealing cookies while covered in crumbs. “i did not skip class, actually. thanks for the concern, satoru, really. very touching.”

your friends reacted like you’d just given the worst performance in the history of lying. haibara tried to hide his laugh behind his hand, geto smirked into his drink, and shoko—who didn’t believe in sugarcoating unless it was on donuts—snorted so loud the table next to you turned.

“you definitely skipped,” shoko said flatly, deadpan as if stating the weather. “i was looking for you in lecture earlier and you were nowhere. not even in the bathroom pretending to cry so someone would comfort you.”

you gasped at the accusation and placed a hand on your chest, clutching invisible pearls because real pearls would’ve required more wardrobe planning this morning. “excuse me? i did fucking not skip.”

geto didn’t even look up. he just lifted a brow lazily. “yeah? then where were you?”

your mouth opened… and absolutely nothing came out. your brain went to file excuses and found the cabinet completely empty except for a metaphorical moth. you inhaled sharply, turned away from all the eyes staring at you, and reached for nanami’s drink like it was diplomatic immunity. you took a sip—an unnecessarily long sip—as if green tea could save your soul from the social execution happening around you.

nanami let you drink it, which should’ve been a red flag in itself. he only let you touch his drink when he was either (1) too tired to argue or (2) preparing to lecture you.

you placed the glass back, very gently, very slowly, the way one disarms a bomb, and then turned to face nanami with your sweetest, most weaponized smile—the one that got you out of legal consequences once.

“baby, listen—”

he didn’t raise his voice. nanami didn’t need theatrics. his disappointment alone could level civilizations.

“you skipped class.”

“i— no, i didn’t skip, i just… didn’t attend,” you argued, hands moving in useless little gestures as if rearranging air could make your excuse sound less idiotic. “there’s a difference.”

nanami blinked once. slowly. the way a man does when mentally calculating if prison is worth it. “and what,” he said, tone calm to the point of terrifying, “is the difference, sweetheart?”

gojo leaned in like a hyena. “yeah, educate us, princess.”

you shot satoru a look that could curdle milk. “the difference,” you said, straightening your back on nanami’s lap, as if delivering a thesis, “is that skipping sounds intentional and irresponsible. i simply chose peace and preserved my mental health by not exposing myself to academic distress. self-care. you should try it.”

shoko wheezed. geto covered his smile with his hand like a scandalized victorian woman in church. haibara actually clapped quietly, the traitor.

nanami stared. “you overslept.”

“i—” you lifted a finger, offended, “no. i rested.”

“until one in the afternoon,” nanami clarified, because of course he checked.

you clicked your tongue, rolling your eyes and looking away because you refused to be wrong in front of an audience. “god, you say that like it’s a crime.”

“it is when you’re paying for courses you don’t attend,” nanami replied, adjusting your position on his lap like he was grounding you into sanity. “do you intend to graduate, or do you plan to survive on generational wealth alone?”

gojo grinned. “i vote for generational wealth. it suits her.”

“shut up, satoru!” you snapped, smacking his arm across the table.

nanami caught your wrist mid-swing—gentle, firm, thumb pressing into your pulse like a warning. he leaned in, voice low enough that it curled down your spine like expensive silk. “behave.”

and your friends, the demons you called family, burst into laughter like they’d been waiting for that exact moment.

your face heated—not embarrassed, because you didn’t do embarrassment—just… strategically annoyed. “are you all done enjoying my suffering, or should i perform a tap dance too?”

geto raised his cup. “please do, bonus points if you fall.” you scowled, sinking further into nanami’s chest, arms crossed like a brat, mumbling, “you’re all mentally ill.” shoko took a drag from her vape and exhaled smoke right over your hair. “and yet, we go to class.”

six of you slipped back into conversation, the kind that required zero brain cells—mostly gojo lying, geto enabling it, haibara believing it, and shoko regretting her existence—but it was comfortable chaos, and nanami’s arm around your waist grounded you, thumb tracing slow circles on your thigh in that absent-minded you’re mine, don’t start way he did.

and then she appeared.

a girl materialized beside the table with the unwanted presence of an unsolicited ad popup. weird bangs—like she cut them during a psychotic episode or let a blindfolded toddler do it—long black hair, cardigan buttoned wrong like a cry for help. she beams at gojo first, all teeth, dimples, and misguided optimism.

“gojo-kun! hey!”

of course she knew him. everyone with bad decision-making skills did.

gojo lit up like a dumb golden retriever who just saw its leash. “ohhh, utahime! guys, this is utahime! she’s in my and nanamin’s major.”

you zoned out at the name because it sounded like a villain from a discount fairytale. irrelevant. what wasn’t irrelevant was gojo pulling out a chair for her—the chair right across from nanami.

oh. so this is the type of day we’re having.

“utahime, this is geto, shoko, haibara, and—” gojo gestured vaguely at you and nanami, “—nanami and his girlfriend.”

you lifted your hand with the grace of royalty blessing peasants. “hello.”

she glanced at you for half a millisecond, uttered a bland “hi,” then turned fully to nanami like you were an aesthetic prop that came with the table.

“nanami, right? i think i’ve seen you around in the literature department.”

you stared at her like she’d grown a second head. you were literally sitting on his lap and she still managed to mentally crop you out of the frame like a bad ex. the audacity smelled like drugstore perfume.

nanami nodded politely, because unfortunately he was raised with manners. “yes, we share a few lectures.”

she smiled at him. smiled. like she had teeth specifically for him. “i thought so. you always look very focused. it’s impressive.” your eyelid twitched. impressed? what was he, a circus act?

nanami, oblivious to your growing homicidal aura, replied with that calm, respectful tone that made professors love him. “i just prefer not to fall behind.”

gojo elbowed geto under the table, whispering loudly, “she’s so into him.”

geto hummed. “dead on arrival. she has no idea who she’s messing with.” shoko exhaled smoke into the shape of a middle finger. “she’s brave. or stupid. likely both.”

utahime didn’t hear—tragedy. she settled in, and somehow, like a cursed domino effect, the conversation shifted. you were mid-complaint to shoko about how leggings weren’t pants when you noticed nanami and utahime were… talking.

like, actually talking.

animated.

engaged.

she asked about some assignment or some book, and nanami—your nanami, the man who rationed his words like they were wartime supplies—responded with actual sentences.

you narrowed your eyes. suspicious.

you tuned back in when you heard utahime say, “you’re part of the campus horticulture and sustainable agriculture society, right?”

you blinked. the campus what?

nanami nodded. “yes. the horticulture and sustainable agriculture society—HSAS. we’re focusing on soil health improvement this semester. most students ignore the foundational care required for—”

“soil health,” you repeated blankly under your breath, like the words themselves gave you indigestion.

shoko chuckled. “oh look, your boyfriend’s having his plant ted talk.”

utahime leaned in, elbows on the table, chin in hands, like nanami was reciting poetry in italian. “that’s fascinating. i’ve been wanting to grow herbs in my apartment but everything i touch dies. what soil do you recommend for beginner plants?”

nanami actually warmed up. warmed up. his voice gained depth, like she just unlocked npc dialogue level two. “well, herbs require well-draining soil. most beginners overwater because they assume more water means faster growth, but it increases the risk of root rot—”

you stared. root rot? this man barely used more than five words with anyone and suddenly he was the david attenborough of basil plants?

gojo leaned toward you with a grin that deserved jail time. “look at nanamin go. bro’s flirting plant-style.”

you hissed, “one more sound and i will shove your matcha straw so far up your nose you’ll taste grass.”

haibara laughed nervously. “guys, be nice…”

geto sipped his drink, amused. “this is fantastic. i’ve never seen nanami talk so much to anyone who wasn’t her.” he tilted his head at you. “how does it feel to be replaced by fertilizer talk?”

you glared at him, jaw tightening. “i’m not bothered.”

you were absolutely bothered.

it was like watching your golden retriever boyfriend suddenly become conversational with a passing pigeon. who the fuck was she to get this much dialogue from him?

nanami continued, utterly unaware of the storm brewing on his lap. “if you’re new to plants, start with mint or rosemary. they’re resilient and don’t require much intervention.”

“wow,” utahime said softly, eyes big enough to irritate you on a spiritual level, “you know so much.”

you could feel your soul leave your body, hover above the table, and consider flipping it.

shoko leaned over and whispered, “you gonna let her herb-flirt with your man like that?”

“i’m unbothered,” you repeated, nails digging into nanami’s thigh hard enough to pierce through his soul. nanami’s hand tightened on your waist—not painfully, just enough to say behave without interrupting his fucking spinach seminar.

geto smirked. “you look seconds away from committing eco-friendly homicide.”

you whispered through a closed-teeth smile, maintaining your princess composure, “i swear to god if that girl asks him one more plant question, i’m ripping the rosemary out of her hypothetical garden and making her eat it.”

gojo cackled. “i will literally pay to see that.”

and nanami, sweet plant-talking, politely smiling nanami—was still answering her question about sunlight exposure like he wasn’t currently sitting under a girlfriend-shaped nuclear bomb.

you inhaled, slow, deliberate, eyes narrowing as utahime leaned closer to him again.

your grip on nanami’s thigh tightened, nails sinking in.

he paused mid-sentence, finally turning his head just enough to look at you, brow slightly raised—only a millimeter, but on nanami that equaled what are you plotting.

you smiled, all teeth.

if he didn’t stop this herbal bonding session soon, you were about to water that girl with holy water and bury her in “well-draining soil.”

as everyone left the café to walk toward the cinema, the situation deteriorated with the same speed as your patience. what was supposed to be your afternoon—your boyfriend, your friends, your post-class movie date—had now been hijacked by the bangs-gone-wrong herbal witch who somehow glued herself to nanami’s side like an unwanted sticker on a luxury bag.

you should’ve known gojo was capable of this level of treason. he was skipping ahead like a golden retriever who found a ball, proudly leading utahime into your circle as if he’d discovered fire. the bitch was now walking in front, beside nanami—beside your nanami—talking about plants. still. they were still talking about the horticulture club (you mentally renamed it the horti-culture-of-ruining-your-day-club), her voice full of curiosity and fake academic interest, while nanami nodded and responded like he was a responsible mentor in a children’s education program.

normally, nanami would hold your hand, walk beside you, adjust your pace like you were the center of his orbit. now? you were behind him. behind. like a side character. a background extra. a cautionary tale.

gojo slung an arm over your shoulder, grinning like he was waiting for popcorn to watch you combust. shoko walked on your other side, hands in her pocket, already scrolling her phone. behind you, geto and haibara chatted about something that wasn’t nearly as important as your personal crisis.

you crossed your arms over your chest, eyes drilling holes into the back of utahime’s skull. maybe if i stare hard enough, a giant plant pot will fall on her head from a cosmic balcony and she’ll go back to photosynthesis permanently. you were not wishing for her death—you were merely manifesting a gardening accident poetic enough to send her away.

gojo glanced down at you, smirk widening. “you look like you’re planning a homicide using fertilizer.”

“don’t tempt me,” you muttered, voice low, venom-dipped. “i’m one intrusive thought away from repotting her six feet under.”

shoko snorted without looking up. “you’re dramatic.”

you whipped your head toward her, offended. “i am realistic.”

gojo gasped in exaggerated betrayal. “so you’re jealous.”

you turned slowly, face blank, tone flat but dangerous. “jealous? of who? of that… bangs-with-a-personality-disorder? please. the only thing i envy is the delusion she has that she belongs here.”

geto actually choked on air behind you.

gojo wiggled his eyebrows. “she’s just talking to nanami. they’re bonding.”

“over fucking soil, satoru. soil.” you hissed, voice cracking like your sanity. “tell me why my boyfriend is suddenly the plant whisperer for an outsider? what is he, some kind of agricultural tinder? people swipe right and he waters their basil?”

shoko sighed. “you’re spiraling.”

“i’m descending,” you corrected, gesturing passionately with one hand while the other murderously clutched your chanel bag. “this is a free-fall.”

nanami glanced back briefly—just a fraction—to check if you were keeping up. normally that look would soften you, but today it made your rage glitter. he didn’t even offer his hand. he just turned back to the demon-spawn herb girl and resumed discussing mint infestations like he was the ceo of oregano.

you leaned in to your friends, voice dangerously polite. “look at them. walking together. talking. breathing the same oxygen. disgusting.”

haibara, sweet innocent soul, tried to reassure you. “i’m sure nanami is just being polite—”

“polite?” you snapped softly. “he is my boyfriend. the bare minimum is him being rude to other women. loyal men don’t discuss rosemary ratios with anyone except their girlfriend. i should be the only herb in his life.”

gojo wheezed. “you did not just call yourself a herb.”

“shut your mouth before i season you with salt and eat you alive.”

utahime laughed at something nanami said. oh, she laughed. she laughed like she understood him. like she had the right. your eye twitched so hard it could’ve powered a light bulb.

“i hope,” you said calmly, like a villain making a vow, “she tries to plant basil and it sprouts a fungus. i hope her rosemary wilts. i hope her soil becomes a cursed wasteland. and i hope nanami’s watering can leaks all over his shoes so he remembers this betrayal every time he walks.”

shoko stared at you. “…girl. therapy is right there.”

you ignored that. “and him.” you gestured toward nanami, voice rising an octave of offended royalty. “he should know better. he shouldn’t look at other women—”

“he’s not,” haibara pointed out gently, “he’s literally staring at the pavement while talking.”

“bare minimum!” you shriek-whispered. “he shouldn’t talk to other women either! silence is free!”

gojo hummed. “so you want nanami to be mute to everyone except you?”

“yes,” you said without hesitation. “and to plants, apparently, since that’s his thing now.”

geto laughed quietly. “you’re insane.”

“i’m in love,” you corrected, nose in the air. “there’s a difference. love makes you gracious and kind.”

shoko stared. “you literally manifested a potted-plant accident five minutes ago.”

you shrugged. “compassion has levels.”

ahead of you, utahime giggled again—at something plant-related—and nanami, sweet oblivious nanami, slightly nodded along like he was a guest speaker at a gardening conference. you inhaled sharply. “i’m about to photosynthesize rage.”

you kept walking, seething so loudly it was a miracle the concrete under your feet didn’t crack from the sheer force of your offended aura. the world should’ve stopped. the sky should’ve darkened. alarms should’ve gone off. your boyfriend was talking to another woman—and about botany, of all the unsexy, grandma-coded subjects—and everyone around you was acting like this wasn’t a catastrophic betrayal of romance, loyalty, and personal branding.

you sped up half a step so you could hear them better—because how dare he have a conversation you weren’t the main character of—and the words “nitrogen fixation” drifted back to you like a personal insult.

you gagged dramatically. “jesus christ, he’s talking about soil nutrients. does he want to get cheated on? because that’s how men get cheated on.”

gojo raised both brows, arm still lazily over your shoulder. “wow. plants are now infidelity?”

you turned to him, eyes wide with religious conviction. “plants are a gateway drug to emotional affairs, satoru. first it’s rosemary, then it’s sharing gardening tools, and next thing you know she’s repotting her heart into his hands.”

shoko made a noise that was half-laugh, half-choke. “you’re sick.”

you ignored her diagnosis.

up ahead, utahime tucked her limp tragic hair behind her ear, leaning a little too close to nanami as she asked something about photosynthesis like it wasn’t common knowledge taught to six-year-olds with crayons and carrot sticks. nanami answered with that calm, informative tone he used when guiding lost children or explaining tax forms to you so you wouldn’t cry.

he didn’t look at her—no eye contact, bare minimum, congratulations—but he responded. willingly. completely. as if she deserved personalized nanami tutoring services.

you stared at the back of his head like you were trying to set his hair on fire telepathically.

“i can’t believe this is happening,” you muttered, crossing your arms tighter, suffocating in betrayal and your own expensive perfume. “this was supposed to be our movie time. our date. our quality time with the background characters we call friends. and now?? now we’re the supporting cast in gojo’s charity show-and-tell featuring some stray cat with bangs.”

gojo snorted. “be nice, she’s new.”

“and she can stay new,” you shot back. “new and far away. new and outside the group. new as in return to sender.”

geto chimed in from behind, amused. “you realize she can’t hear you, right?”

you whipped around so fast your hair nearly slapped him. “trust me, if she could, she would compost herself on the spot.”

haibara, ever the sunshine idiot, tried to calm you. “maybe she just wants to make friends?”

“oh, please. look at her.” you gestured violently at utahime’s back, nearly elbowing gojo in the ribs. “she’s walking like she’s auditioning to become the new moral compass of this group. we don’t need a moral compass. we barely need a compass. we are lost and we like it.”

shoko raised a brow. “you? moral compass? please. you’d sell this group for a birkin bag.”

you blinked. “shoko. don’t be ridiculous.” you paused. “it would have to be a limited edition birkin. crocodile leather. gold hardware. preferably one-of-one.”

“see?” shoko mumbled.

you ignored the truth because it was inconvenient.

you focused on your boyfriend again—your gorgeous, infuriating, plant-talking boyfriend who should’ve been holding your hand, kissing your temple, ignoring every female organism in a 50-meter radius—and instead he was giving unsolicited gardening advice like some attractive greenhouse consultant.

you hissed under your breath, “he shouldn’t be talking to her. he shouldn’t be talking to anyone. he should be carrying me like a princess and stepping on rose petals while doing it.”

gojo actually laughed. “you want nanami to be your servant?”

“i want nanami to act like a man in love,” you snapped. “not a walking national geographic episode.”

geto added, “you could just walk next to him, you know.”

you gasped as if he suggested you lick hospital floor tiles. “i will not chase him. i am not a golden retriever. i am the ball. people chase me.”

shoko pinched the bridge of her nose. “you are not the ball.”

“i am the ball, the player, the coach, and the entire damn tournament. everyone attends because of me.”

you said this right as utahime laughed again at whatever nanami said and your blood pressure skyrocketed so hard you nearly astral projected.

“i hope,” you said with the serenity of a cursed prophet, “that she wakes up tomorrow and every plant she owns is dead. i hope the leaves turn black. i hope her basil commits suicide. i hope her fertilizer expires. i hope her watering can cracks. and i hope nanami—”

gojo perked up. “ooo, what do you hope happens to nanamin?”

you inhaled deeply. “i hope nanami’s plants grow mold. i hope his little gardening gloves shrink. i hope his stupid herb club—”

“horticulture society,” haibara corrected softly.

“—i hope his STUPID herb club,” you emphasized, “loses funding and they have to sell carrots on the street like failed vegetables.”

shoko stared at you, dead-eyed. “seek help.”

you ignored that. again.

“he should only discuss plants with me,” you muttered, wounded, betrayed, dramatically heartbroken. “i don’t even like plants. but he should only talk to me about them.”

and with that, you stared ahead, at the back of your boyfriend walking beside another woman, and you thought, in the most poetic, dostoevsky-meets-deranged-princess way possible:

if this is what love is, no wonder russian literature is full of suffering.

when you all reach the theatre entrance, the neon lights flickering like a cheap attempt at glamour, gojo’s arm is still slung over your shoulder, the weight of it both grounding and irritating because it wasn’t the arm you wanted. nanami was still walking beside utahime, still talking, still breathing the same air as her, and your eye twitched so violently you were convinced you developed a new facial tic.

gojo followed your burning stare, eyes darting from nanami to you, and with a dramatic sigh—like he was babysitting a rabid raccoon in couture—he tugged you toward the ticket counters. “come on, princess,” he muttered, steering you away, “let’s just forget about him. ignore him too.”

he didn’t even wait for your response, just dragged you away, and you let yourself be pulled only because your body had entered that numb, offended, heart-bruised autopilot that happened once every blue moon—specifically when nanami kento, the one man in the universe who never, ever, not even for one second, failed to give you attention—shifted it to someone who wasn’t you.

you looked over your shoulder at them, your steps slowing, just to witness nanami tilt his head slightly toward utahime as she spoke, his hands in his pockets, posture polite but relaxed—not intimate, not flirtatious, just… engaged. it wasn’t even what he was saying. it was the absence of what he usually did with you—glancing at you, checking if you were next to him, adjusting your bag strap, brushing your hair behind your ear, telling you to watch your step, holding your waist in crowded places.

those things didn’t exist right now.

you faced forward again, jaw locking. you tried not to care, truly, you tried to swallow it with the dignity of a queen who refused to crumble in public, but the petulant, deeply spoiled part of you—the part nanami privately adored and publicly tamed—was clawing at your ribs like how dare he.

nanami had never denied you. not attention, not affection, not his time. you were the center of his carefully organized galaxy and he orbited you with steady devotion. and now? one afternoon of neglect and you felt like the moon had been kicked out of the solar system.

and the worst part? beneath the rage, beneath the jealousy, beneath the desire to poison a plant so it symbolically represented your emotional suffering—there was something softer, uglier, something you hated admitting even to yourself: it hurt.

after gojo paid for the tickets—because you sure as hell weren’t taking out your card for anything under a thousand dollars—he pulled you toward the concession stand where shoko, haibara, and geto were gathering with popcorn and drinks.

the moment they saw you approach—quiet, stiff, lips pressed together—they exchanged glances like doctors diagnosing a terminally ill patient who still thought she had the flu. geto’s eyes flicked over your shoulder, confirming the sight of nanami still with utahime before his gaze returned to your face.

he leaned closer, voice low, non-judgmental but smug enough to rankle. “are you actually upset about them?”

you didn’t trust your voice, so you hummed—short, flat, unimpressed—lifting one shoulder like an attempt at nonchalance, but the tension in your jaw exposed you like a confession written in blood.

geto hummed back, almost sympathetic, handing you a drink like it was medication. “then talk to nanami. if you feel ignored, tell him.”

of course, gojo—diplomatic as a drunk pigeon—ruined the moment.

“oh please,” he scoffed, snatching a handful of popcorn with his free hand, “she feels ignored when a houseplant gets more sunlight than her. miss spotlight here needs constant admiration or she wilts.”

you elbowed him in the stomach, sharp and precise, making him grunt. “shut the fuck up, satoru, before i rearrange your ribs into modern art.”

shoko snorted into her drink, haibara coughed to hide a laugh, and geto smiled behind his cup like he was enjoying a theatre show that didn’t require tickets.

you inhaled sharply through your nose, lifted your chin, and let the dam break.

“he should give me attention,” you snapped, keeping your voice low enough not to cause a public scene but sharp enough to cut god, “he is my boyfriend. my boyfriend. i shouldn’t have to beg for it like some charity case. i shouldn’t have to tap him on the shoulder like a fucking waiter asking for the bill. attention is part of his job description. loving me includes looking at me.”

your words were venom-wrapped silk, but your fingers—clenching your straw, the slight tremble at the tips—betrayed the vulnerable thread under the rage.

geto exhaled through his nose, head tilting, his voice kinder this time, “it makes sense you feel that way. you’re used to him being… very present with you. he set that standard, so it’s normal you expect it.”

you blinked at him, thrown off for a second by the emotional validation that hit you like someone offering you a blanket mid-tantrum.

but geto wasn’t done.

“just… maybe give him a minute? she’s new, he’s trying to be polite—”

you scoffed instantly, an unhinged, offended laugh escaping. “polite? no. no. absolutely not. nanami does not get to be ‘polite.’ he is not a community library. he is not available for public use. if he wants to be polite he can hold the door, say thank you, and move the fuck on. conversation is intimacy and intimacy is mine.”

gojo burst out laughing, a hand slapping his knee. “oh my god. you sound like a medieval king guarding his royal concubine.”

you raised your cup and pointed the straw at gojo’s throat with threatening precision. “say one more word and i will introduce your face to the popcorn machine and butter you like a croissant.”

gojo, shaking with laughter, held his hands up in surrender. “fine, fine—jealousy looks adorable on you. like a chihuahua guarding a yacht.”

“i’m a rottweiler,” you growled.

“you’re a poodle with diamond fur,” he corrected.

you glared at him, then turned to geto, voice dropping, unfiltered, raw, but still dipped in drama.

“if my boyfriend wants to suddenly audition for earth’s next top botanist with bangs mcgee, he can enjoy watering plants alone in his dorm for the rest of his natural life. because i swear, if i have to tell my boyfriend to notice me? to look at me? to choose me? i would rather swallow fertilizer.”

shoko blinked slowly. “please don’t.”

you shrugged. “depends on how long they keep talking.”

and geto, annoyingly calm, annoyingly wise, annoyingly right, just corrected quietly, “you don’t have to ask him to choose you. he already does. every day. you just haven’t told him you feel ignored.”

you hated that logic.

you hated that he was right.

you hated most of all that it made your anger taste like sadness. and you crossed your arms, chin raised, choosing violence over vulnerability—for now.

the popcorn machine hummed behind you, the smell of butter thick in the air, sticking to your skin and your mood alike, and you stood there rigid, spine straight, arms crossed so tight across your chest your bracelets dug into your skin, like your body was trying to hold your ego together before it shattered on the sticky cinema floor. geto’s words lingered like a bitter aftertaste—annoyingly sensible, nauseatingly calm, the verbal equivalent of someone placing a warm blanket on you while you’re trying to commit arson.

you stared at him, lips curling, because if there was one thing you hated more than utahime’s haircut, it was being psychoanalyzed correctly.

“oh look at you,” you muttered, shifting your weight onto one leg, jutting your hip out, your manicured nails tapping sharply against your bicep, “dr. phil reincarnated with a man bun. how poetic. how wise. how about you diagnose my foot up someone’s ass too while you’re at it?”

geto didn’t flinch—he never did, which made him infinitely more punchable in moments like this. he held your gaze, eyes soft, voice level, his cup cradled loosely between his palms like he was warming his hands on the heat of your fury. “you’re allowed to feel ignored. anyone would be upset if their partner suddenly shifted attention. it’s valid.”

you scoffed, dramatic and sharp, head tossing back as if you’d been insulted by god personally. “oh great, thank you, priest suguru, for telling me my feelings are valid. how groundbreaking. next you’ll tell me water is wet and gojo is stupid.”

gojo, who was now sipping his drink like he was watching a romcom unfold, lifted a lazy hand. “both true.”

you ignored him and leaned closer to geto, your voice lowering into that venom-laced whisper reserved for emotional emergency or homicide, whichever came first. “validation doesn’t fix shit. i don’t want to feel better about being ignored. i want him to stop fucking ignoring me.”

you felt your throat tighten—not enough to show, never enough to show—but enough to force you to look away, down at your own fingers gripping your cup like it might explode if you loosened your hold. you repositioned your stance, shifting the weight of your body just slightly so you leaned against the counter, but even that wasn’t relaxed; it was defensive, closed off, chin tilted up in futile superiority.

geto exhaled through his nose, elbows resting on the counter, leaning a little closer so you couldn’t run from the truth he was about to drop like a boulder onto your fragile, dramatic ego. “you’re hurting because you expect the version of nanami who’s always glued to you. but he’s allowed to exist as his own person too. you want devotion, not a hostage.”

your brows flew up, disbelief etched across your face as you pointed your straw at him like a weapon. “first of all, how dare you speak logic to me when i’m actively spiraling. second, nanami being obsessed with me is not hostage behavior, it’s romance. third, don’t stand there with your jesus hair and tell me to be understanding. i’m rich. i don’t do understanding. i do receiving.”

gojo wheezed.

shoko pinched the bridge of her nose, already exhausted.

haibara looked like he was watching a car crash in slow motion.

geto, still impossibly calm, still infuriatingly kind, lifted a hand in surrender. “fine. you don’t have to understand. but talk to him. he doesn’t know you feel this way yet.”

you gave him a slow, sarcastic blink. “wow. brilliant. stunning. inspiring. what a fabulous idea. i should talk to my boyfriend. how revolutionary. no one in the history of existence has ever thought of communication before. should we hold a press conference? maybe write a thesis?”

geto raised a brow. “so you won’t talk to him.”

you inhaled sharply through your teeth. “of course i will not talk to him. talking requires vulnerability. vulnerability requires humility. i have neither.”

gojo cackled. “at least she’s self-aware.”

you snapped your head toward him, eyes blazing. “self-awareness is not the virtue you think it is. it’s the burden of the elite.”

geto sighed but the corner of his mouth twitched, because even when you were insufferable, you were entertaining. “he cares about you. deeply. you know that.”

you bit down a bitter laugh. your throat felt tight, your stomach twisting, nails scraping lightly against your arm through your sweater sleeve. “yeah? well he should show it. i shouldn’t have to perform emotional gymnastics to earn the attention he used to give freely. if i wanted to beg for scraps, i’d date a man who makes minimum wage.”

shoko actually choked on her drink this time, coughing. “jesus christ.”

geto stared at you. “you do realize nanami is allowed to have conversations with other women, right?”

your head snapped toward him so fast your hair whipped over your shoulder like a weapon. “and you do realize i don’t give a singular microscopic fuck about what men are ‘allowed’ to do, right? he is my boyfriend. my emotional support adult. my legally binding emotional investment. if he wants to discuss rosemary with another woman, that woman better be me in a wig.”

haibara blinked slowly. “why would you need a wig?”

you waved him off. “for dramatics, haibara, please keep up.”

and there it was—the truth sitting on your tongue, bitter and humiliating, but ready to spill because no amount of sarcasm could bury it forever.

you exhaled shakily, your voice dropping half an octave, quieter but no less sharp. “i just… i shouldn’t have to ask to be seen.”

and the silence that followed was loud—accompanied only by the violent popping of kernels in the machine behind you, like applause for the tragedy of your own making.

the waiting area outside the theatre was cramped and buzzing, the kind of space where the floor was sticky with decades of spilled soda and regret, circular tables placed close enough that strangers’ conversations bled into each other. all six of you crowded around one of those round tables, chairs stolen from nearby like barbarians claiming land. the digital screen above the hallway flickered with “screen 4 – seats cleaning, please wait”, and everyone settled into that pre-movie limbo — except you, who sat with your back painfully straight, pretending nanami wasn’t sitting right beside you with his hand on your thigh like he owned real estate there.

you tried to ignore him. ignore the warmth of his palm through the sheer wolford tights, ignore the weight of his fingers curving around the top of your thigh like you were his favorite page-turning novel, ignore the small absent-minded circles his thumb drew — gentle, steady, familiar — the exact type of touch that usually melted you, soothed you, tethered you to him.

but right now? it felt like salt on a wound.

because while his hand was on you, his attention wasn’t. nanami was still talking to utahime. still. like the universe hated you personally.

you stared at the table, chin tilted slightly away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing your eyes, while on your left, geto raised his brows at you, a silent talk to him written across his face. you shook your head once, small, stubborn, your lips tightening, and he sighed, leaning back like he was watching a predictable tragedy unfold.

nanami didn’t seem to notice your emotional apocalypse. his posture was relaxed, other hand resting on the table, his voice low and polite as utahime asked him something about club meetings or plant pots — you didn’t care, you refused to care, but it clawed at you anyway.

you snapped.

you slowly leaned in, one elbow on the table, your body turning toward nanami, your hair falling like a curtain over your shoulder, your voice dipped in honeyed poison. “what were you two talking about?”

nanami turned instantly — and god, you hated that your heart reacted before your brain could block it. his gaze softened the moment it met yours, that small, warm smile appearing — the one that was just for you, the one that made you feel chosen, the one that usually cured every storm inside you.

his knuckles brushed your cheekbone, tender, affectionate, familiar enough to make your inhale stutter. “just some things about the plants,” he dismissed gently, thumb brushing your skin like he was smoothing your irritation away. “utahime is thinking of joining the horticulture club.”

the club again. as if the word itself didn’t sound like an allergy.

you hummed, but your eyes didn’t soften, and your jaw was wired tight. “what things?” you asked, voice light to the untrained ear, but razor-edged if anyone listened with their soul. “tell me.”

it wasn’t a question. it was a command masked as a request. you wanted him to elaborate, to include you, to bring you into the conversation where you belonged — beside him, not outside of him.

nanami exhaled, a small barely-there laugh from his nose, the kind a man makes when he thinks you’re cute for being ridiculous. “you wouldn’t understand, sweetheart,” he murmured, tone meant to soothe, not belittle — yet it sliced through you cleanly anyway. “don’t stress your pretty head about it.”

and then — the fucking bastard — he turned his attention back to utahime as if you hadn’t just spoken. as if your opinion, your presence, didn’t demand the gravitational pull it always had.

you froze.

your frown carved in deeper, lips pressing so tightly together your lipstick nearly cracked. your chest hollowed in that humiliating, nauseating way pride bleeds when pricked. and from the corner of your eye, you caught it — the smallest twitch of utahime’s lips. not a smile. a smirk. subtle, fleeting, but you saw it. the kind of expression one makes when they think they’ve been chosen over someone else.

you bit the inside of your cheek so hard the metallic taste of blood bloomed on your tongue.

nanami kento had just dismissed you. in public. in front of people. for plant girl.

humiliation and fury tangled inside you like barbed wire.

you didn’t speak. you couldn’t — because to speak now would be to either cry (never allowed) or stab (socially frowned upon). your pride was a spoiled, overfed beast, raised in luxury, pampered with attention, never starved a day in its life — and suddenly nanami had fed someone else first. your ego didn’t know how to process deprivation. it was built on the unshakeable fact that you were the exception to rules, not subject to them.

nanami had always been one of those things placed into your palms without effort — not because he was easy, no, he was one of the only things you actually wanted badly enough to hold with care — but because he chose you endlessly, without hesitation, without question, making you believe his devotion was fixed, guaranteed, unshakable.

and now? now he had shifted his attention for a moment too long, and it felt like a throne had been pulled an inch from under you. not enough to fall — just enough to wobble, enough to threaten your crown.

your voice finally emerged, low, venom-soaked, each syllable enunciated like a curse. “you know,” you said, staring at the table because if you looked at him you’d either combust or kiss him and both would be humiliating, “i must be delusional to expect my boyfriend to act like he gives a shit when i’m sitting right next to him.”

nanami blinked, head turning slowly back toward you, brows gently knitting, confusion and concern surfacing in equal measure. “i do give a—”

you cut him off, a cold laugh escaping you, sharp enough to slice the air. “really? because you’re acting like i’m some decorative throw pillow you keep around for aesthetics. should i sit on the floor so you can focus better on your little garden club recruitment?”

geto sucked in a breath. shoko mumbled “oh, fuck.” gojo was already grinning like a hyena at a feast.

nanami’s hand on your thigh tightened, firm, grounding, not rough but authoritative enough to demand your gaze — so you turned, finally meeting his eyes, and god, you hated that the warmth there made your chest ache.

“i wasn’t ignoring you,” he said softly, calmly, trying to stay level-headed like he always did with you. “she asked questions. i answered. it wasn’t meant to make you feel left out.”

you tilted your head, smile slow and poisonous. “well congratulations, you failed. gold star. ten out of ten on the ‘make my girlfriend feel like a side character in her own life’ scale.”

nanami sighed — not annoyed, not angry — but patient, because of course he was patient. “i’m sorry you felt that way. but you know you’re important to me.”

your lips curled again, a mocking echo of sweetness. “important? i’m not asking to be important, nanami. i’m asking to be prioritized. you can’t treat me like the main course one day and a mint garnish the next. pick a menu.”

and even as you stabbed him with your words, your chest throbbed with something awful, something you didn’t allow to surface: you were scared. scared of being replaceable. scared of indifference. scared because nanami was the one person you didn’t know how to exist without winning.

he held your gaze, thumb rubbing soothing circles again — this time not absent-minded, but intentional. “i should’ve paid more attention to you,” he admitted quietly.

you wanted that to fix it.

it didn’t.

not yet.

and that line — “i should’ve paid more attention to you” — should’ve knocked the fury out of your bones, wrapped you in silk, lulled you into that soft spoiled-brat slumber where you win simply because nanami surrendered first. it should’ve been enough to stop the spiral dead in its tracks.

because nanami didn’t deny you, didn’t gaslight you, didn’t tell you you were “doing too much.” he validated you. he handed you the crown back with his own hands, kissed your ego gently and placed it on the throne again — no resistance, no argument, no double meaning. pure, steady sincerity.

but you?

you were a dramatic piece of shit.

your entire existence was built on ego the way temples were built on sacred ground — your pride wasn’t a personality trait, it was the spine you walked with. one microscopic moment of humiliation felt like being stripped naked in public. you weren’t wired to crumble gracefully. you were wired to explode, self-destruct, resurrect, and then deny it ever happened.

you prided yourself on being untouchable, above nonsense, above insecurities. you prided yourself on being that girl — the one who didn’t flinch, didn’t break, didn’t chase. the one who ignored gojo’s existence for an entire freshman year because he annoyed you and you refused to give his ego oxygen. you were a monument of indifference when you wanted to be.

so admitting something got to you? that a girl with tragic bangs shook your composure enough to make you feel?

fucking humiliating.

you were supposed to be the one people cried over — not the one hiding tears.

and the worst part was knowing utahime heard you argue, saw you demand attention, witnessed the crack in your armor. she should’ve been the one feeling threatened by you — not you feeling anything over her.

your chair scraped back sharply, the sound slicing through the table’s chatter. nanami’s hand instantly reached for your wrist, instinct kicking in, but you jerked your hand away like his touch burned. the shock that flickered across his face — brief, quiet, wounded — nearly broke something inside your ribcage, but you bit down on it, rose to your feet with your chin high, spine rigid, and walked away.

you didn’t look back.

you refused to give them the image of your eyes shining.

you could hear footsteps behind you — one pair, steady, controlled (nanami), another lighter and lazier (gojo), and a third too bored to hurry (shoko). you prayed it wasn’t nanami, because if he saw your eyes, saw the crack, saw the tear that fought to slip free, your pride would shatter so loudly the universe would hear it.

you pushed the bathroom door open with more force than necessary, the fluorescent lights too bright, mirrors too reflective for fragile emotions. it was empty — stalls open, silence echoing off the tiles — a sanctuary for humiliation to decompose in peace.

you braced your palms on the counter, head tilted up toward the ceiling like you were begging gravity to pull the tears back into your skull instead of down your face. you grabbed tissues, folding them like they were fine linen napkins, pressing them beneath your waterline carefully — because you would rather die than let mascara betray you. ugly crying on top of public humiliation? no. you had standards, even in breakdowns.

your shoulders trembled once — quickly — the way a spoiled princess shakes only in private, only for a second, only before putting the mask back on.

the door creaked open. shoko entered, leaning against the sink beside you, arms crossed, chewing her gum like she was watching a circus she didn’t buy tickets for.

“that was dramatic as hell,” she sighed, like this was episode twelve of a show she couldn’t stop watching. “even for you.”

you snapped your head toward her, eyes glossy but sharp, whisper-hissed so your voice wouldn’t crack, “shut the fuck up, shoko, unless you want to be the next victim in my emotional homicide spree.”

she raised both brows, unimpressed. “i’m just saying — storming off mid-conversation like a telenovela villain after her husband cheats with the maid? iconic, but dramatic.”

you glared, aggressively patting the tissue under your eyes with the precision of someone defusing a bomb. your voice was tight, vibrating with swallowed rage. “i am trying not to cry, okay? if uta-fucking-hime makes me cry just by breathing in the direction of my man, i’ll bury her in the community garden next to the fucking carrots.”

shoko huffed a laugh, shaking her head as she grabbed another tissue and handed it to you. “you’re insane.”

“i’m territorial,” you corrected sharply, dabbing at the corner of your eye, making sure your eyeliner stayed crisp. “and i refuse to let some no-name, middle-class herb girl with a discount shampoo routine see me cry. she will not get that satisfaction. i will set myself on fire first.”

shoko shrugged, leaning next to you in the mirror. “you know nanami didn’t mean to hurt you.”

you threw the tissue away like it offended you. “he dismissed me, shoko. me. in front of her. do you know how humiliating that is for someone with my upbringing? i grew up in a house where the sun rose when i woke up. i am not emotionally equipped to be treated like… like fucking background noise!”

shoko sighed, but there was something gentler in it this time. “you felt replaced for a second. it happens.”

you clenched the edges of the sink, knuckles white, nails digging into porcelain. “i don’t get replaced.”

your voice broke on that line — just slightly, enough that shoko’s gaze softened — and you sniffed, anger and vulnerability tangling in your throat like poison.

“i don’t get replaced,” you repeated, quieter, like you were reminding the universe. “especially not by basil-enthusiast barbie.”

shoko handed you another tissue, her tone flat but honest. “you won’t be. nanami’s obsessed with you. it’s gross.”

you swallowed hard, eyes lifting to your reflection — furious, wounded, beautiful, trembling. you whispered, voice shaking but trying so hard not to break, “then why did it feel like i was… optional?”

the door creaked again, interrupting the moment before your throat could fully tighten around the confession, and a voice—annoyingly recognizable, obnoxiously casual—floated in:

“you’re not optional.”

you closed your eyes like god was testing you personally. shoko didn’t even react—meaning she expected this circus act.

gojo stepped in, sunglasses pushed up on his head like a headband, hair a mess like he styled it with electricity. he took in the scene—your glossy eyes, shoko leaning like a bored therapist, tissues everywhere—and he sighed dramatically.

“jesus, you’re really in here having a main-character mental breakdown in a bathroom,” he muttered, walking closer. “and not even a luxury bathroom. this is tragic. i expected better from you.”

you glared at him, voice already cracking with rage and humiliation. “fuck off, satoru.”

he didn’t. he reached out, plucked the tissue from your hand with surprising gentleness, and guided your chin upward with two fingers so you were forced to look at him. his movements were slow, almost annoyingly tender, as he dabbed beneath your lashes to catch the tears before they could fall.

“nanamin is disgustingly obsessed with you,” he said, tone matter-of-fact, almost bored. “like, clinically. it’s gross. if he could lock you in a little glass display case so no one breathed the same air as you, he would. he’s feral about you.”

you scoffed, voice trembling not from disbelief but from how badly you wanted to believe him. “this is my fucking fault,” you muttered, shoulders curling inward as you snatched the tissue back just to shred it between your fingers. “all my fucking fault.”

gojo hummed. “yeah. kinda.”

shoko’s head whipped toward him. “satoru—”

but you raised a hand sharply to stop her, because weirdly, you needed the honesty, even if it sliced. “no. he’s right. it’s my fault because i let myself get… bothered.” the word felt dirty, like weakness, like rust on a crown. “i shouldn’t be this… affected. i shouldn’t fucking care. i’m me. i don’t do insecure. i don’t do threatened. but here i am—crying in a fucking cinema bathroom like a side character in a netflix teen drama.”

you gestured around wildly, voice rising again, hysteria bubbling because once you started, you couldn’t stop. “and not even a nice bathroom! do you see the tiles? this place looks like it was decorated by a depressed cockroach. if i have to emotionally collapse in public it should at least be inside a hotel restroom with marble counters and a couch.”

gojo nodded seriously. “you deserve chandeliers with your breakdowns.”

“exactly!” you snapped, pointing at him like he was the only person with IQ in the room. “i am too expensive for this kind of emotional scenery.”

shoko leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you unravel like yarn. “you’re spiraling.”

you shot her a glare through the mirror. “i am aware. now shut up and let me spiral with dignity.”

you turned back to gojo, eyes burning. “and it’s your fault too.”

gojo blinked. “my fault? how did i enter the chat?”

you jabbed a finger into his chest with the force of an entitled squirrel on caffeine. “you brought that farm-fresh disney side character into our group. you let her tag along. you encouraged her. and now i’m crying over miss herbal-essence-reject because she dared to breathe within ten inches of my boyfriend.”

gojo’s lips twitched. “okay, fair, i’ll take partial responsibility for releasing the eco-friendly demon into our circle.”

shoko snorted.

you ran both hands through your hair, pacing a small circle, your heels tapping aggressively against the tiles, movements sharp, emotional energy radiating like static. “i am so embarrassed. do you understand? embarrassed. i do not feel. i make other people feel. i do not chase, i get chased. i do not compete, i get worshipped. and suddenly i’m… this.” you gestured to yourself like you were a cursed portrait. “this pathetic puddle of emotional goo because my boyfriend decided to talk about fucking plants with someone who isn’t me.”

gojo placed a hand on his chest, tone solemn. “plants are disrespectful like that.”

you nearly laughed—almost—before the ache returned, tightening your throat.

“i hate that i care,” you whispered, eyes dropping again, thumb rubbing at the tissue in your hand like you could scrub the feeling away. “i hate that she got under my skin. i hate that he let her. i hate that she saw me crack.” you swallowed, voice thinning with raw embarrassment. “she’s not even on my level. i shouldn’t feel anything. she should feel inferior, insecure, irrelevant — not me.”

and there it was again—your truth, ugly and spoiled, but honest.

gojo’s voice softened just slightly, just enough to cut through your tantrum. “you care because he matters. that’s not pathetic. it’s just… love. the messy, vomit-inducing kind.”

you clenched your jaw, lip trembling despite your effort to kill it. “i don’t want love to make me look stupid.”

shoko spoke this time, voice dry but real. “yeah, well… that’s kind of the default package. love fries brain cells.”

you stared at your reflection. eyeliner still sharp. mascara intact. lipstick only slightly smudged. you looked angry and beautiful and fragile and terrifying all at once. you exhaled shakily, like forcing out poisoned air, “if loving someone means i cry in a public bathroom that smells like buttered trauma, then i want a refund.”

gojo stared at you for a moment, the playful glint in his eyes dimming just enough to reveal something almost… human. sympathy, guilt, the faint wrinkle of someone realizing oh shit, i accidentally kicked a puppy while trying to pet it. he let out a breath, long and uncharacteristically genuine, his hand settling briefly on your shoulder—not heavy, not mocking, just there.

“okay,” he said quietly, “i’m sorry. i didn’t think bringing her would… you know, make you feel like this. i didn’t mean to dump emotional compost on your royal garden of delusion.”

you sniffed, wiping the corner of your eye with a new tissue as if dabbing at expensive wine spilled on silk. “as you should be sorry.” your voice was hoarse but sharp. “you’re lucky i’m emotionally unstable right now or i’d be charging you for emotional damages. and trust me, my invoices come with interest.”

a small laugh puffed out of him, but he nodded. “i know. you come first. always. dramatic loyalty oath or whatever.”

you flicked your wrist like a queen accepting tribute. “good. as you should choose me first. imagine picking her.” you scoffed like the idea itself was beneath language. “ew.”

gojo leaned back against the sink next to shoko, crossing his arms, shoulders slumping, expression turning thoughtful in a way that made him look borderline competent. “you know,” he said, head tilting, “if i did actually like her—like like her—I’d be spiraling, too. probably worse than you.”

you gestured at him with the damp tissue. “exactly. you are the blueprint of being a dramatic clingy bitch in this friend group. i learned from the best.”

shoko snorted, arms crossed as she leaned beside him. “he’s dramatic, not psychotic. your issue is… more advanced.”

you didn’t hesitate. you threw the crumpled tissue at her face with perfect aim.

“shut the fuck up, shoko, or I’ll flush your vape down the toilet.”

she caught it mid-air, dropped it in the trash, and exhaled like dealing with you aged her in dog years.

you turned back to gojo, brows furrowing as you wiped under your eye again carefully, preserving the wing of your eyeliner like it was a fragile national treasure. “seriously, though. how are you not losing your shit? miss herbal shampoo is out there flirting with nanami in 4k, and you’re just… breathing. like normal. aren’t you supposed to be performing a one-man telenovela by now? throwing yourself dramatically over the concession counter? faking a fainting spell? something?”

gojo shrugged, pushing his sunglasses further into his hair as he examined his nails like he was filing his feelings away. “i mean, i don’t really care-care. she’s cute, but not ‘cry-in-a-bathroom’ level. the crush wasn’t crushing, you know?”

you gawked at him, scandalized. “so you brought a girl you didn’t even like like into our sacred circle of dysfunction? you contaminated the ecosystem for a lukewarm crush? are you deranged?”

he lifted both hands, palms out. “in my defense, my standards are confusing even to me.”

you threw your hands up. “so you emotionally derailed me for absolutely no fucking reason except your brain short-circuited and thought ‘hey let’s invite the human embodiment of a compostable tea bag to movie night’?”

he opened his mouth. closed it. then nodded. “yeah that sounds about right.”

you gasped, pressing a hand to your chest like a heart-broken victorian widow. “i swear to god, satoru, if i ever commit a felony, you will be the reason.”

shoko muttered under her breath, “you’ll commit a felony no matter what.”

you shot her a look. “not the point.”

you turned to the mirror again, tilting your head to assess your reflection—puffy waterline, makeup still salvageable, lashes intact, lip gloss slightly faded but fixable. good. you could still walk out there and look untouchable. but the humiliation? still boiling.

your voice softened—not weak, but the kind of softness anger uses when it starts eating itself.

“i just… i hate that someone like her got under my skin,” you admitted, picking at your thumbnail, your reflection looking back at you like a stranger you didn’t consent to be. “i hate that i cracked over something so… beneath me. she’s not even competition. i shouldn’t have felt anything.” your throat bobbed, your pride bleeding slowly. “i’m supposed to be the storm. not the one caught in it.”

gojo bumped your shoulder lightly with his. a rare, gentle gesture. “storms still get tired.”

you stared at him through the mirror, eyes narrowing as if evaluating whether to accept the comfort or set him on fire.

“i don’t get tired,” you muttered.

he arched a brow. “you’re literally crying next to a hand dryer.”

you inhaled sharply, scanning your reflection once more, lifting your chin a millimeter higher, as if that alone could glue your dignity back into place.

“fine,” you said, swallowing pride like poison. “maybe i got… temporarily… inconvenienced by emotion.”

shoko snorted. “inconvenienced? you sprinted out of there like nanami announced he was marrying utahime on wednesday.”

you pointed at her again. “keep talking and i will bite your face.”

but your reflection didn’t lie: you were shaken, cracked, and scrambling to rebuild the throne inside your chest before anyone else saw the fracture.

you weren’t done spiraling—but you were done being seen falling apart.

and just as you braced your palms on the sink to steady yourself, the bathroom door opened again.

this time, footsteps were steady. familiar. slow.

nanami.

the sound of those footsteps—measured, unhurried, familiar in their quiet certainty—slithered under the bathroom door crack and hit your spine before the door even opened. nanami’s footsteps always sounded like intention, like calm inevitability, like consequences arriving dressed in beige and self-restraint.

the door pushed open with a soft click. gojo and shoko both straightened, not out of respect but because nanami Kento entering a bathroom while you were mid-breakdown was the emotional equivalent of a nuclear inspector walking into a live warzone.

nanami stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him, his eyes scanning the room until they found you. his posture was composed, hands in his pockets, shoulders squared yet soft, like he was approaching a frightened animal he didn’t want to spook. his gaze moved from your blotchy waterline to the tissue shreds on the counter, and something in his expression shifted—pain, regret, a flicker of guilt tightening the muscles of his jaw.

gojo cleared his throat, stepping slightly in front of you like a bodyguard wearing clown shoes. “hey, we’re having a very important emotional meltdown here—private screening, by invitation only.”

nanami didn’t look away from you. “step aside, gojo.”

gojo opened his mouth to argue—then saw the look in nanami’s eyes and decided he valued his life. he lifted both hands in surrender. “roger that. therapist daddy mode activated, we’ll leave.” shoko followed him out, but not before patting your shoulder like she was petting a traumatized cat.

the door shut again. silence fell, thick and suffocating as expensive velvet.

nanami took one step closer. you instinctively straightened, lifted your chin, wiped the corner of your eye with a sharp swipe like erasing evidence. your arms crossed over your chest, your body angling away from him—not quite running, not quite ready to forgive, suspended in the ugly in-between of pride and pain.

he spoke first, voice low, steady, the kind that softened even when saying hard things. “you walked out. can we talk?”

you scoffed, avoiding his gaze in the mirror, fixing an imaginary smudge on your eyeliner. “wow, you noticed. truly a christmas miracle.”

he exhaled slowly, stepping closer but leaving enough space so you didn’t feel cornered. “i noticed the second you stood up.”

“congratulations,” you muttered, tossing the ruined tissue into the trash with surgical precision. “a little late though, don’t you think? maybe if you had noticed i existed five minutes earlier, we wouldn’t be starring in this bathroom drama.”

he ran a hand through his hair—once, a small tell he was gathering patience. “i wasn’t ignoring you.”

you spun around to face him fully, arms still crossed, heart still bleeding but covered in barbed wire. “you dismissed me, nanami. in front of her. i asked you to include me and you basically told me to go play with crayons because my stupid little brain couldn’t understand your plant science shit.”

nanami’s brows knit, genuinely pained. “that’s not what i meant. i wasn’t belittling you. i thought you were frustrated already and—”

“oh, so now i’m fragile? delicate? mentally allergic to academia?” your laugh was dark, humorless. “please, enlighten me, professor horticulture—explain how telling your girlfriend ‘don’t stress your pretty head’ while turning your back to her isn’t dismissive. i’ll wait.”

he closed the distance by half a step, hands lifting but not touching you yet, as if waiting for permission you would never verbally give. “i was trying to keep the conversation light, not make you feel inferior.”

your throat tightened. you hated how badly you wanted to believe him. how much you wanted him to fix the bruise he caused.

you turned away again, pacing a small line near the sinks, heels clicking like punctuation to your rant.

“do you have any idea how humiliating that was?” your voice cracked before you forced it steady again. “i don’t do… this.” you gestured angrily to the bathroom, your face, your reflection—your vulnerability. “i don’t get affected. i don’t compete. i don’t chase attention. i am the attention.”

nanami’s voice softened. “you are.”

you ignored the way that hit you. “and suddenly i’m crying in a public bathroom that smells like expired mops because some random girl dared to speak to my boyfriend like she—” your breath wavered, “like she was entitled to his time.”

nanami’s shoulders softened, and he stepped closer again, slow, deliberate. “you are not optional. you are not second to anyone.”

you snapped your gaze to him, eyes burning. “then why did i feel like a placeholder? like a side character sitting there while you entertained fan mail from some herb-obsessed homewrecker apprentice?”

nanami pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling, then met your eyes again—direct, unwavering. “i should have put my attention on you. i should have noticed you were upset. i got caught up in answering her questions and didn’t see how it affected you. i’m sorry.”

his apology wasn’t defensive. wasn’t performative. wasn’t sugar-coated.

it made it worse.

because now you had no villain to fight but your own fear.

you scoffed to keep from letting it soften you. “sorry doesn’t un-humiliate me. sorry doesn’t make her forget she saw me beg for attention like some common mortal.”

“you didn’t beg,” he said firmly. “you asked. because it mattered to you.”

you bit back the ache behind your teeth. “well, it shouldn’t have. i shouldn’t care this much. tears over plants? is this what i’ve become? an emotionally unstable salad?”

nanami’s lips twitched—not mocking, but like he wanted to smile at the sheer absurdity of you. “you care because you love me.”

you rolled your eyes so fast you saw heaven. “don’t say it like that. it makes me sound weak.”

“loving someone isn’t weakness.”

you scoffed, pacing again, resorting to sarcasm like armor. “easy for you to say. you weren’t the one crying next to the tampon dispenser.”

nanami took another step, closing the gap, his voice low. “i love you. i am allowed to talk to others, but you are the one I choose. always.”

you swallowed, hating how your pulse reacted to hearing him say it plainly.

you lifted your chin, clinging to the last shard of drama left. “you better. because if i have to keep sharing your attention with some botanical disney princess, i swear i will uproot her entire bloodline, replant them, and watch them wilt.”

nanami nodded, dead serious. “noted. i’ll make it clear to her that we won’t be having more one-on-one conversations.”

you blinked. “…oh.”

your ego perked up like a spoiled cat being offered caviar again.

his hand finally reached for yours—slow, giving you time to pull away if you wanted—but you didn’t. he held your fingers carefully, like they were something precious he almost dropped once and refused to lose again.

“you come first,” he said quietly. “if i made you feel anything else, i’ll fix it.”

and for once, you had no witty comeback ready.

your pride hated how good that felt.

and yet—because you were you—you sniffed, wiped under your eye again, and muttered, “you better, because i refuse to cry in a 2-star bathroom twice in one day. my reputation can survive one mental breakdown per quarter at most.”

but here’s the universal truth mothers should stitch into baby blankets so no girl grows up delusional: men are fucking liars. even the good ones. even the morally-upright, self–righteous, tax-paying, cardigan-wearing, philosopher-souled species of man. the ones who read books without pictures, the ones who sort their recycling, the ones who speak gently to old people and cats.

yes—even nanami kento.

your precious boyfriend, the man who lectured you about honesty like it was a religion and he was the last pope standing—turned out to be a man with a mouth capable of lies. small ones, yes, but lies nonetheless. lies sprinkled in moral salt. lies marinated in good intentions. but lies.

because after all that cinematic bathroom telenovela meltdown, after all the comforting, the forehead kisses, the “i’ll fix it,” the “you come first”…

utahime was still there.

not only there.

everywhere.

the bitch multiplied like mold in humidity.

somehow, she burrowed into nanami’s horticulture club like a tick with a dream. and because the club wasn’t just weekly—it was meetings, garden maintenance, farmer’s market volunteering, seed exchange events, greenhouse cleanup, weekend plant fairs—she was suddenly permanently glued to his schedule like ivy choking a wall.

every time you turned a corner on campus—she was there. carrying a watering can. laughing too loudly. holding seedling trays like they were newborns.

every time you looked out the window during class—you saw her walking with nanami to the greenhouse.

every time you checked instagram—someone posted a story of the club and guess who was standing too close to him?

every time you waited outside his lecture—she walked out with him, talking, giggling (yes, giggling—like you didn’t threaten to bury her under a basil farm).

she joined the same library study group.

she sat two rows behind him in lectures she didn’t even take.

she suddenly found “reasons” to be in the cafeteria when he got lunch.

the girl was haunting your life like a stalker ghost with bangs.

and worse? nanami didn’t shut her down like he promised he would.

so you did what any self-respecting spoiled princess with injured pride and an inflated sense of self-worth would do:

you ignored him.

full commitment. full silent-treatment olympics. gold medal performance.

you didn’t text first.

you didn’t sit next to him in class.

you left his messages on read and sometimes—just to inflict psychological warfare—delivered.

you walked past him in hallways with your chin up like a widow attending the funeral of a husband who died in dishonor.

and the audacity of nanami?

the man noticed and chased.

today, he cornered you outside the library, hand gently curling around your wrist—not forceful, just enough to halt your dramatic strut. his voice soft, tired, laced with concern.

“you’ve been ignoring me.”

you turned slowly, sunglasses on despite being in the shade, chewing gum like violence, your posture dripping with aristocratic disdain. arms crossed, hip popped, chin lifted—your entire body language declared: try me, peasant.

you took a long, theatrical breath. “ignore you? no, darling, i simply redirected my attention. i’m sure utahime is thrilled to receive the overflow.”

nanami’s jaw flexed—a tell. “you know it isn’t like that.”

you barked a dry laugh, head tilting with enough sarcasm to slice a man. “really? because from where i stand, it looks exactly like that. she’s glued to your side like you’re the last functioning brain cell on this campus.”

his brows knit, his hand loosening slightly on your wrist so he wouldn’t hold you if you pulled away. “she keeps approaching me. i’m not entertaining anything inappropriate. i’m just being courteous.”

you ripped your hand out of his hold, stepping back like his touch burned. “courteous? you were supposed to make it clear—your words, not mine—that there would be no one-on-one interactions. ring a bell or do you need me to write it on your forehead with permanent marker?”

nanami sighed through his nose, the way he did when he was trying so hard to remain patient with your unfiltered psychopath era. “i didn’t want to embarrass her in front of the club. she’s new. she hasn’t done anything wrong.”

your head snapped back as if slapped by the stupidity of that sentence. “not done anything wrong? existing near you is wrong enough for me. breathing your air is a felony in my book.”

“you’re being unreasonable,” he murmured gently.

your spine straightened, chin lifting a millimeter higher, eyes narrowing into slits of diamond-cut rage. “don’t you dare call me unreasonable. i am extremely reasonable for a woman who hasn’t committed aggravated assault yet.”

he stepped closer, voice lower. “i understand you’re upset. but i’m doing my best to handle this without causing unnecessary conflict.”

you scoffed, folding your arms tighter across your chest. “newsflash, nanami: conflict is necessary. humiliation isn’t. and you let me look like a clown that day. so now? i’m protecting my dignity.”

his expression softened in that maddeningly stable nanami-way. “you’re not a clown.”

you shrugged, indifferent mask slipping back on. “maybe not. but i felt like one. and you didn’t stop it.”

a beat of silence.

the truth sat between you like a wounded animal.

nanami’s voice came quieter, careful, the way a man sounds when stepping on emotional landmines. “i should’ve set boundaries more firmly. i thought I could handle it politely, but I see now that it hurt you. I’m sorry.”

and god, he made it so hard to stay angry when he did that—when he offered accountability instead of excuses.

but you weren’t done bleeding yet.

you clicked your tongue, looking him up and down like he was a disappointing purchase you were considering returning. “sorry isn’t enough this time. fix it. or i swear i will start a rumor that you and your plants are in a polyamorous relationship.”

nanami blinked. “that… doesn’t even make sense.”

you smirked coldly, leaning closer, voice dropping to a whisper of rich, spoiled poison. “watch me make it make sense.”

and then, because pride demanded a dramatic exit, you turned on your heel and walked away—leaving the scent of expensive perfume, ego, and emotional carnage in your wake.

but here’s the cruelty in the universe that no one warns you about because it would make little girls grow up violent: men will swear on their grandmother’s grave that they won’t do something… and then go do that exact thing with clean conscience and a student-discount coffee in hand.

and nanami kento — your nanami, the man built from ethics and moral consistency, the man who looked like he’d file a police report if he saw someone cut in line — turned out to be a man, too.

a man capable of promising and then failing.

after the cinema meltdown, after the bathroom breakdown, after nanami held your hand and said the equivalent of you’re my priority, after he placed metaphorical rose petals on your ego and vowed to do better…

utahime didn’t disappear.

no, the bitch multiplied.

like she was photosynthesizing off your rage.

and the worst part? she wasn’t just present. she was strategic.

she was everywhere nanami was — like she subscribed to his personal movement calendar.

everywhere, meaning: when you went to meet nanami after class? utahime was there, “coincidentally” packing her bag slower than a glacier melts. when nanami had club duty in the greenhouse? she was already inside with gloves on, hair clipped back all “i’m such a hardworking little plant fairy” aesthetic.

library study sessions? somehow she “didn’t understand the homework” and asked nanami for help. she sat next to him — next — not across, not diagonally. group lunch with your friends? she slithered in like a side character trying to make herself relevant, tray in hand, pretending she “just happened to be here too.”

and your friends saw it. gojo saw it first (and enjoyed it like live theatre). geto sighed like a disappointed parent. shoko made nicotine-laced commentary. haibara tried to “give her a chance” until you threatened to drown him in fertilizer.

you did what any self-respecting, pride-soaked, ego-driven, spoiled girlfriend with an image to protect would do: you went full cold war.

if nanami wanted politeness, he could enjoy silence instead. you ignored him with the elegance of a duchess excommunicating a traitor. and nanami noticed immediately because you didn’t just ignore — you withdrew.

you didn’t sit next to him in class — you sat between gojo and your bag like a chastity belt.

you didn’t touch him — no hand on his arm, no kiss on the cheek, not even a hair tuck.

you didn’t text first — and when he texted, your responses were so short they were practically Morse code:

him: are you free after class?

you: busy.

him: can i call you?

you: no.

him: are you upset with me?

you: ask your club member.

you left his “goodnight”s on read.

you left his “are you okay?” on delivered because read would be too generous.

in the group, it was worse — because nanami tried public damage control, which was humiliating for you and painful for him.

like earlier today, all of you were at your usual table in the campus café. you arrived last, sunglasses on, iced latte in hand, a picture of uninterested royalty. nanami pulled out the chair beside him for you — your usual seat — and you walked right past it and sat between shoko and geto instead, crossing your legs like a throne had been rolled under you.

nanami’s hand hesitated mid-air before lowering. everyone saw.

a muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing — at first.

then, after ten minutes of group chatter, he tried to join your space.

he leaned slightly toward your side of the table, voice low enough for you but audible to others, “you’re quiet today.”

you didn’t look at him. you sipped your drink, adjusting your sunglasses, and responded with a tone dry enough to produce drought:

“maybe i’m photosynthesizing.”

gojo choked on his muffin. shoko coughed to hide a laugh. geto stared into his drink like it was a portal to escape reality.

nanami inhaled, patient but cracking. “can we talk later?”

you smiled — cold, polite, corporate-HR-email kind of smile. “why? so you can politely ignore me again in favor of plant girl? i’m busy later. very, extremely, unprecedentedly busy.”

“you’re upset,” nanami said softly — and god, he sounded like he was trying not to touch a wild animal, “and I understand why, but i told you, i’m not entertaining anything. she’s new and i’m trying to be decent.”

you turned your head just enough to look at him over the rim of your sunglasses — only the lower half of your gaze visible, dripping with contempt and luxury.

one brow lifted. “decent? don’t use words you clearly don’t understand. decent would’ve been keeping your promise.”

geto winced. haibara whispered “oh no.” gojo grabbed popcorn like entertainment had begun.

nanami kept his voice steady, though his fingers tapped once against his cup — a tiny crack in composure. “i didn’t break the promise. i haven’t spoken to her alone outside of club responsibilities, and when she—”

you cut him off with a laugh — sharp, cruel, aristocratic. the kind a queen gives when a peasant offers excuses.

“club responsibilities,” you repeated, mockingly. “what a sexy phrase. truly. i’m so thrilled you found a morally sound loophole in your vow. maybe next you’ll say ‘we only breathed air in the same vicinity for charity reasons.’”

his brows pulled together — he was trying, really trying. “you’re twisting my words.”

“no,” you said, leaning back with one arm draped over the back of your chair, looking him dead in the eyes, “i’m repeating them. just slower. so they sound as stupid as they actually are.”

nanami exhaled, steady but strained, and the worst part? he still validated you because he loved you like it was a discipline. “i understand why you’re hurt. you’re right to feel neglected. i should’ve enforced stronger boundaries.”

you shrugged, inspecting your nails like the conversation bored you. “words, words, words. if i wanted rehearsed accountability, i’d date a politician. i wanted results.”

nanami’s voice dipped lower. “i’m trying to fix it.”

you stared at him, expression blank, voice sugar-poisoned, “try harder.” and after that, you went back to ignoring him — because you weren’t done punishing him yet. your pride demanded interest.

nanami kento, for all his monk-like patience and buddhist-level self-control, was still a man with limits, and you—blessed, cursed, loved, unbearable you—had been kicking those limits like a toddler on a sugar high. he missed you. painfully. he missed the chaos, the clinginess disguised as entitlement, the way you demanded affection like it was your birthright, how you’d climb into his lap without asking because why the fuck would you ask, the iced coffee orders you shoved into his hand when he picked you up, the kisses you gave like they were currency and he was the only bank that accepted them.

he missed you so much it made him irritable, and nanami kento being irritable was a rare supernatural event—like the northern lights or a government official being honest.

so he did the only logical thing: he showed up at your stupidly large house.

the house you didn’t call a mansion because “mansion sounds tacky” but where the staff wore uniforms and the ceiling height legally required a parachute. the kind of house that had wings—plural—as in east wing, west wing, wife’s-attitude-control wing.

the workers knew him by now. the butler gave a respectful nod. one of the maids greeted him by name. none of them questioned the expensive, tall, blond man walking through the front door like he paid the mortgage. nanami climbed the spiraling staircase—custom marble, cold under his palms when he used the railing—and walked the long hallway to your room at the far end, because of course the princess needed isolation and acoustics for dramatic exits.

your door was ajar just enough for him to push gently, and he entered quietly.

there you were.

sitting in the center of your ridiculous, king-plus sized bed like a pissed-off deity. silk pajamas clinging to your shoulders, the color soft and expensive, the kind of fabric that looked like it refused to touch poor people. your hair damp from a recent shower, strands falling around your face, lashes dark against your cheeks, skin still warm from steam. you looked soft enough to hold and sharp enough to stab—your default state.

you looked up, saw him, and rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle you didn’t see your brain. you didn’t say a word. not “why are you here,” not “go away,” not even “fuck off.” nothing. the silence itself was an insult.

nanami closed the door behind him with a quiet click that echoed in the large room, and walked further in, footsteps slow, gaze steady on your face—even if your expression screamed i hope you step on lego barefoot for eternity. he took a moment to just look at you, as if memorizing your resentment was better than not seeing you at all.

you snapped, voice sharp and flat: “what.”

nanami hummed, that infuriatingly calm, deep hum of his. “can we talk?”

you scoffed, leaning back on your palms, chin tilting with aristocratic disgust. “i don’t talk to pieces of shit. and you’re a big one. like, family-sized. extra value pack.”

nanami blinked once, head tilting a fraction, absorbing the insult without flinching. “i’m a piece of shit?” he repeated, tone so soft it made the words sting more.

you crossed your arms tight over your chest, silk rustling. “yes. obviously. congratulations on finally joining the rest of your gender.”

instead of defending himself like most men would—loudly, stupidly—nanami did something worse.

he accepted it.

he quietly dragged one of your chairs—one of those stupidly soft velvet ones meant for “decorative reading” you never actually used—across the floor and set it directly in front of you. he sat down, knees spread slightly, forearms resting gently on his thighs, posture straight but not intimidating. it was the posture of a man prepared to listen, not fight. which made your chest tighten and your temper spike—because you wanted to be angry, not understood.

he met your eyes, unwavering, voice low, even, heartbreaking in its steadiness.

“then tell me why,” he said. “why am i a piece of shit?”

and just like that, the floor was yours—your stage, your arena, your battlefield. and nanami kento sat there, ready to let you stab him with every word.

you stared at him for a long moment, the kind of stare that wasn’t silent—no, it was loud, screaming, accusing, trembling at the edges with wounded pride you refused to show. your jaw tightened, your fingers curled into the silk pooling around your thighs, and when you finally spoke, your voice came out low, cracked with disbelief and venom.

“do you ever think,” you began slowly, eyes narrowing at him, “how fucking humiliating it was for me to sit there—your girlfriend—fighting for your attention against nobody but uta-fucking-hime?”

nanami didn’t flinch, but his throat bobbed.

you continued, leaning forward, one finger stabbing the air at him like you were pointing at a suspect in court, “she’s not even competition. she’s a filler character, a background extra with tragic bangs and soil under her nails. i shouldn’t have to compete with that. i shouldn’t have to try. but there i was, reduced to fighting for scraps like some desperate peasant dog waiting for the king to drop crumbs from the fucking banquet table.”

nanami opened his mouth, but you kept going, steamrolling him because if he spoke now, you’d crumble, and weakness was not on tonight’s agenda.

you huffed a humorless laugh, sitting upright again, crossing your arms tight across your chest, chin lifting with aristocratic disgust. “do you understand how degrading it felt? i don’t fight for attention. i’m used to being the center of gravity. people orbit me. planets shift because of me. i don’t beg. i don’t chase. i don’t sit there like some forgotten decorative pillow while you—” your voice sharpened, “—politely entertain some herb-collecting homewrecker apprentice.”

nanami inhaled, eyes soft but steady. “i never expected you to fight for my attention. i’m sorry you felt you had to.”

you scoffed, rolling your eyes and looking away because his softness was a knife to your ribs. “yeah, well, congratulations, you put me in that position. so yes, you’re a piece of shit.”

you extended a hand toward him like you were listing charges in court, each finger flicking upward with another bullet of rage.

“one: you dismissed me. like i was some stupid little decoration on your arm. like i was a shiny accessory you forgot to polish that day.”

nanami sat straighter, hands clasping gently between his knees, voice calm. “i didn’t intend to dismiss you. i thought—”

“wrong,” you cut him off, glare sharp, “your intentions don’t fucking matter if the result still makes me want to drown myself in fertilizer.”

nanami pressed his lips together, accepting the hit.

you held up a second finger.

“two: you told me you would set boundaries. you said you’d stop the little one-on-one herb therapy sessions with her. and guess what? she’s still glued to you like mold on bread. if this is your definition of ‘boundaries,’ i fear what chaos your freedom must look like.”

nanami exhaled a long, controlled breath. “i did limit our interactions. i haven’t spoken to her outside the club and—”

you barked a laugh that was almost a choke. “oh, outside the club—wow. such discipline. such restraint. truly, a saint among idiots. i’m so touched. should i nominate you for boyfriend of the year or just frame your bullshit and hang it in a museum?”

his brows pulled together, a muscle flexing in his jaw—but he stayed calm, infuriatingly so. “i’m telling you the truth. i’m not entertaining her.”

you leaned closer, voice dropping to a slow, lethal whisper. “you don’t have to entertain her for it to still feel like betrayal. the bare minimum for a boyfriend is to make sure his girlfriend never questions whether she comes first. and you didn’t do that. you left space. you left opportunity. you left room—and she ran into it like a stray dog finding an open door.”

that one hit. nanami looked down for a second, breath steadying, his hands loosening on his thighs as if unclenching invisible tension. “you’re right. i shouldn’t have left any room for doubt.”

and god, the way he agreed so easily made your anger burn hotter—not colder—because part of you needed him to fight back so you could keep throwing knives. his accountability cornered you into feeling instead of yelling, and you hated it.

your voice wavered very slightly, and you looked away quickly to hide it. “and three,” you whispered, throat tight, “you made me feel small. and i don’t get to feel small. ever.”

nanami’s head lifted, eyes on you instantly, body leaning forward just enough to reach you if you needed grounding. “you’re never small to me. not for a second.”

you swallowed, back stiffening, legs crossing and uncrossing because the vulnerability made your skin itch. “well, that’s what it felt like. and feelings are facts now because mine are expensive.”

nanami nodded once, accepting your twisted logic as truth because to you, it was. “then i’m sorry. for every part of this that made you feel less.”

you blinked hard, jaw clenching, because his calm acceptance was suffocating in the most disarming way.

you wanted to stay angry. you wanted to scream. you wanted him to beg. but he just sat there—quiet, steady, unshaken—offering himself as the place for your rage to land, not deflecting it.

and that—somehow—was worse.

so instead of softening, you scoffed again, looking away with a shaky breath, because god forbid he sees the crack forming.

“you should be sorry,” you muttered, voice smaller than you meant, “because if i ever have to feel that kind of humiliation again, i’m burning down the greenhouse with you both inside. i’m not joking, nanami. i will commit arson in the name of love.”

you weren’t done—oh no, your rage had chapters, footnotes, an appendix, and a director’s cut. and nanami sitting there so calmly, giving you space to unravel, only fed the fire.

you pushed off the mattress and sat up straighter, the silk of your pajama shirt sliding against your skin as you hugged your knees loosely to your chest, posture defensive but regal, like a dethroned princess still wearing the crown out of spite. your fingers dug into the soft duvet, knuckles whitening as the words clawed up your throat.

“and another thing,” you snapped, pointing at him again, your voice shaking—not with fear, but with insulted pride, “you made me look fucking stupid.”

nanami’s brows drew in, but he didn’t speak—he knew better than to interrupt when you were winding up.

“do you have any idea how that felt?” you continued, your tone rising in waves, “you made me sound like some brain-dead bimbo who couldn’t comprehend the basic concept of sunlight and leaves. like i’m incapable of understanding the most entry-level plant shit. me. you treated me like i’m stupid.”

nanami shook his head, voice quiet, “that wasn’t my intention.”

“but that’s what you did,” you shot back immediately, not letting softness leak in. “i asked what you two were talking about at the cinema—my boyfriend, talking to another girl—and you dismissed me. like i was some annoying toddler interrupting grown-ups having a cultured conversation. like i couldn’t hold a single fucking sentence about your club.”

your voice cracked, and you hated that it did.

your fingers curled tighter into the blanket, nails sinking into the velvet fabric.

“before,” you went on, quieter for a second, “when i asked about your club, when i tried to show interest in the nerd shit you like, you’d tell me things. short things, but still things. and i listened. i tried.”

nanami opened his mouth slightly, and you saw the apology forming, but you didn’t let it land—you surged forward, fueled by humiliation you hadn’t digested yet.

“but the moment uta-fucking-hime bats her dollar store lashes and asks you something?” your voice rose again, bitter, sarcastic, acidic, “suddenly you’re hosting a fucking TED Talk on soil acidity and root trauma. suddenly you’re plant Jesus delivering parables. suddenly you found the fucking words you never bothered using with me.”

nanami’s chest expanded with a slow inhale, his elbows resting lightly on his knees, fingers intertwined—not defensive, not reacting, just listening, which somehow made it worse.

you dragged a hand through your damp hair, pushing it back sharply, pacing a few steps in front of him like your body couldn’t contain the indignation.

“do you know how fucking humiliating that was?” your voice trembled as you paced, silk pajamas swaying with every sharp turn. “you didn’t just ignore me. you made me feel like i wasn’t smart enough to be included. like i didn’t belong in your world when i’m the one who’s supposed to be in it the most.”

nanami finally spoke, tone soft but steady, “i didn’t share more with her because she’s special. i did it because she asked specific questions, and i—”

you spun on him, eyes burning. “so when i ask, what? my questions aren’t specific enough? sorry for not speaking fluent Plant Nerdish. should i learn latin and photosynthesis formulas to earn basic politeness?”

he shook his head immediately, “that’s not what I—”

“because it sure as hell felt like it,” you spit out, arms crossing again, hugging yourself without wanting to look like you needed comfort. “felt like i wasn’t worth the same energy. like you didn’t think i’d care. like you assumed i’m too shallow to understand anything that isn’t shopping, lipstick, or chaos.”

nanami’s eyes softened further—the exact softness you avoid because it disarms you. “i never thought that of you. i know you can understand anything you want to. i just didn’t want to bore you or overwhelm you when you already seemed upset.”

you stared at him, chest rising and falling quickly, the fight still trembling inside you like a caged animal.

he continued gently, “with utahime… i wasn’t thinking about you in that moment the way i should have. i should’ve noticed how it made you feel and prioritized you instead. i’m sorry.”

and because your pride was a skyscraper—tall, expensive, reinforced with ego—you refused to let his sincerity dissolve your anger.

you scoffed, wiping under your eye with the back of your hand before the tear could fall. “you better be sorry. because if i ever have to watch you give some other girl a powerpoint presentation while i get the toddler-version explanation again, i’ll personally make sure your precious rosemary never sees sunlight again.”

nanami actually huffed a quiet breath—half a sigh, half a disbelieving laugh.

you leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing like a warning blade, voice low and lethal:

“try me, kento. i’ll turn your little greenhouse into a botanical graveyard.”

he stared at you gently, the smallest curve at the corner of his lips—not mocking, but full of something unbearably tender.

“i believe you,” he said.

and for a split second, the room pulsed with something that wasn’t anger—but you shoved it back into its cage before it could soften you.

you sat down on the very edge of the bed, like the mattress might swallow you whole if you dared to sit properly, silk pajamas pooling around your thighs, your spine stiff and your hands gripping the duvet so tightly the fabric bunched under your fingers. your legs were tense, knees angled inward, like you were holding yourself together through sheer ego alone. your chin trembled—not enough to expose you, just enough to betray the strain of holding everything in.

your eyes burned, lashes wet, vision blurring in that humiliating way that felt like defeat. you blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall because crying in front of him felt like handing over your crown—but your voice betrayed you, coming out raw, cracked, furious.

“do i have to learn fucking plants now?” you snapped, glaring at the floor because looking at him would break you. “is that it? i have to memorize soil pH and fucking photosynthesis just so you don’t have to talk to uta-fucking-hime?”

nanami inhaled, slow, steady, as if bracing himself to not crumble at the sight of you unraveling. “no,” he said gently, “you don’t—”

you cut him off with an unhinged laugh, bitter and broken at the edges. “because apparently that’s what it takes to get your attention these days. maybe i should start growing basil out of my ass too. will that help?”

nanami’s eyes widened a fraction—not at your vulgarity (he was used to that) but at the complete sincerity under the sarcasm. he took a slow breath, leaning slightly forward in the chair, hands clasping together, his voice careful. “you don’t need to learn any of that. i don’t want you to change. you don’t have to pretend to care about something just because I do.”

your head snapped up at that, eyes flashing, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. “aren’t i already pretending?” your voice wavered, then steadied through force. “i sat there, listening to you talk about leaves and soil and mint like it was the fucking cure to cancer, trying so goddamn hard to look interested, to support you—because it mattered to you, so i made myself care.”

nanami’s face softened, guilt pooling in the lines of his expression, but you continued before he could speak.

“and the one time—ONE TIME—I ask to be included, to be part of your little plant world, you shut me out like i’m some airheaded idiot you have to protect from botany knowledge.” your hand flew to your chest, pressing there like the pressure could keep your heart from cracking open. “what is that? what do you think i am?”

nanami’s voice dropped, quiet but urgent, “i didn’t shut you out because i think you’re stupid—”

“no?” you snapped, leaning forward, your anger trembling with hurt. “then why did you treat me like i’d break a nail if you explained what fucking soil is? why did she get the encyclopedia version while i got the kindergarten summary with sparkles and crayons?”

his brows pulled together, jaw tightening, but his voice stayed gentle—too gentle. “i thought I was making it easier for you. i didn’t want to overwhelm you with details when you were already upset.”

you scoffed again, wiping under your eye aggressively with the heel of your hand, smudging nothing because your skincare was too expensive to budge. “then you should’ve shut up, not dumb it down. i don’t need you to simplify the world for me like i’m some fragile porcelain doll who’ll shatter if exposed to big words.”

your throat tightened painfully, words spilling before pride could stop them.

“i’m not broken,” you whispered, then louder, sharper, “i’m NOT stupid.”

nanami’s face softened entirely, his voice warm and low and infuriatingly tender. “i know you’re not.”

your lips trembled, but you forced them still.

he tried to reach for your hand, slow and deliberate, giving you time to pull away—but you did, snatching your hand back to your lap, your body curling slightly inward, shoulders tightening, like you were trying to shrink away from the hurt without letting him see the wound.

“i don’t want to learn about plants,” you spat, voice thick with tears you refused to let fall. “i don’t want to join your stupid club. i don’t want to talk about soil or herbs or whatever the fuck rosemary trauma you deal with. i just…” your breath shook, “i just want you. and i shouldn’t have to study for the role of being your girlfriend.”

nanami’s eyes softened further—dangerously, heartbreakingly so—and he leaned forward just a little, elbows on his knees, voice steady in a way that threatened to unravel you completely.

“you already have me.”

you laughed—ugly, shaky, self-mocking. “do i? because it sure as hell didn’t feel like it when you were looking everywhere but at me.”

the tear finally escaped.

you swiped it away so fast it barely had time to fall.

he saw that tear—just one, microscopic, fast—but nanami was the kind of man who could feel an earthquake from a single tremor. his expression shifted, softened, his breath leaving him in something almost pained as he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped loosely like he was holding the weight of this carefully, terrified of crushing it.

“i’m sorry,” he said quietly, voice low, raw, without any of the neat composure he’d tried to maintain. “i hurt you. i shouldn’t have dismissed you, and i shouldn’t have allowed room for you to feel replaced or lesser. that was my failure.”

you scoffed instantly, curling further away from his sincerity like it burned. “oh, wow. an apology. revolutionary. should i clap? maybe roll out a red carpet? you want a medal for saying sorry like a big boy?”

nanami accepted the jab without flinching. “i’m not asking for praise. i’m telling you the truth—i’m sorry.”

“yeah, well,” you muttered, sniffing harshly as you dragged the sleeve of your silk pajama top across the corner of your eye before the next tear could betray you, “sorry doesn’t erase the fact that i looked like a fucking clown.”

nanami’s brows pinched at the word, but his voice stayed steady. “you didn’t look like a clown.”

you laughed—sharp, bitter. “don’t lie to me now. i humiliated myself for a man—you, unfortunately—and she watched. that’s worse than death. i should fake my own disappearance and move to monaco under a new name at this point.”

he shook his head, leaning closer on instinct, like his body couldn’t stand the space between you. “you reacted because you care about us. there’s nothing humiliating about caring.”

you snapped your gaze to him again, fury flaring through the heartbreak. “stop saying caring like it’s cute. it’s pathetic. i don’t do pathetic. i’ve never been pathetic. i don’t cry over boys. boys cry over me. that’s the natural order of the universe.”

nanami’s voice softened even more—a tone you hated because it saw right through you. “you’re not pathetic. you’re hurt. because I made you feel like you weren’t valued. that’s on me.”

you shook your head fiercely, hair falling forward, fingers tugging at the silk on your thigh like you needed something to anchor you. “you made me feel like some… irrelevant, dumb, useless accessory. and i know i’m spoiled and dramatic and ridiculous but—” your breath broke again, “but i shouldn’t have to beg to matter to the one person who’s supposed to love me most.”

nanami swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, thicker. “you never have to beg for that. you never should have felt you did.”

you scoffed again, but weaker, because his sincerity was cracking your armor. “well, congratulations, you made me feel exactly that. you can add it to your achievement list: hurt your spoiled girlfriend enough to make her almost learn about basil.” you sniffed deeply, then glared at him like it was his fault oxygen existed. “do you know how low that is? i almost googled plants for idiots. that’s rock bottom.”

nanami blinked, then exhaled a breath that was almost—almost—an amused disbelief, but he restrained it because he knew laughing now was equivalent to suicide. “you don’t need to learn anything for me. i don’t want you to pretend interest for my sake.”

“but she asked,” you hissed, leaning forward, hands dropping to the mattress, gripping the edge as if the bed would levitate otherwise, “and you gave her the whole encyclopedia of plant shit like you were teaching a masterclass. meanwhile, when i ask, i get don’t stress your pretty head. do you hear how insulting that is?”

nanami closed his eyes briefly—guilt flickering across his features like a shadow—and when he opened them, he held your gaze firmly. “you’re right. that was condescending. i thought i was protecting you from stress, but i see now that it sounded like I was belittling you. that wasn’t my intention, but it doesn’t change how it made you feel.”

you stared at him, breath shaky, throat tight, and your voice dropped into something almost small—but still edged with venom because you refused to hand him the pure version of your pain.

“i don’t need protection from information. if i don’t understand, i’ll ask. i’m not fragile.”

nanami leaned forward more, hands loosening, as if fighting the urge to reach for you but respecting the invisible wall you kept between you. “i know you’re not. you’re strong, sharper than anyone I know. i should’ve respected that instead of trying to soften things for you.”

the compliment, the acknowledgment, the correction—it hit somewhere deep you didn’t want him to reach, so you snapped, defensive:

“you should have. because now? now i look like the stupid girlfriend who can’t keep up, while miss horticulture homewrecker gets the professor edition.”

“you’re not stupid,” nanami repeated, firm enough to anchor the air around you.

you looked away again, jaw clenching, your voice barely above a whisper: “but you made me feel like i was.”

he inhaled deeply, voice steady but pained. “then i failed you. and i’m sorry.”

this time, the apology didn’t feel like words— it felt like weight. and your pride, your last line of defense, forced your chin up, even as your voice cracked, “you should be. because if you ever make me feel like that again, i’m ending us both. emotionally, socially, and possibly legally.”

he apologized again—soft, steady, without flinching—and you opened your mouth, ready to snap back with one of your signature lines that would absolutely emotionally assassinate him and then ruin your life five seconds later, but he lifted a hand ever so slightly.

not commanding.

not silencing.

asking.

“can you… listen to me first?” he said, voice low, gentle, the kind that didn’t demand obedience but somehow earned it.

you hated that tone.

because for all your unhinged chaos, you weren’t heartless—you weren’t immune to the way nanami spoke when he genuinely needed you to hear him. his voice dipped lower, his posture leaned in—not towering, not intimidating, not challenging—just close enough to show sincerity, far enough to give you space to breathe.

you clenched your jaw, eyes narrowing, but you nodded once—sharp, reluctant—like you were granting an audience to a criminal on trial.

your body language screamed i’m listening against my will, but you stayed quiet, arms still folded, nails digging into your silk sleeves, your chin tilted up just a fraction as if to remind him you were still pissed, still wounded, still royalty on her throne of spite.

nanami exhaled, relieved you didn’t storm out or throw a pillow at his head.

his voice stayed calm, steady—because he was talking to a hurricane, not a person, and he knew it.

“i didn’t handle things correctly,” he began, his tone soft but anchored. his hands rested on his thighs, fingers relaxed now, not clasped tight like before. “i thought I was doing the considerate thing. you were upset that day, and I didn’t want to overwhelm you with details or make you feel out of your depth. i thought simplifying things would help. i see now it came across as dismissive and condescending.”

your lips twitched—because yes, that’s exactly what it was—but you held yourself back, biting your tongue, letting him continue because you agreed to listen and your pride wouldn’t let you break your own rule.

he kept going, breathing slow, every word careful:

“with utahime, I didn’t realize how it looked. she kept asking questions, and I answered because I thought I was being polite, not because I found her more deserving of my time.”

he swallowed once, eyes softening as they held yours. “but intention doesn’t erase impact. and the impact was that you felt second. that’s on me.”

the words hung in the room like incense—heavy, honest, impossible to ignore.

you shifted on the bed, uncrossing your arms just to cross them again tighter, because your heart tried to soften and your pride screamed no, not yet. your foot tapped once against the floor—restless, emotional energy leaking out in movement because sitting still with feelings was dangerous territory.

nanami continued, leaning in a little—not invading, just closer, grounding:

“you felt replaced. dismissed. stupid. and that’s the last thing I ever wanted you to feel. you’re the person I respect most. you’re the person whose attention I cherish, not hers. you matter to me more than anyone else does.”

your throat tightened. you looked away, staring at the edge of your vanity table, anywhere but at him, because if you looked directly at the warmth in his eyes you would break.

he let the silence settle a moment—not awkward, not rushed—just enough for his words to land, to breathe, to reach the place in you that still cared through all the rage.

“i should’ve shut the conversation down sooner,” he admitted quietly. “i thought staying polite would avoid unnecessary tension, but it cost you peace instead. and that isn’t worth it to me.”

your hands loosened just a little in your sleeves—barely—but enough for him to notice.

nanami breathed out, voice softer:

“I’ll fix it. properly this time. not just with words, but with action. I won’t let you feel sidelined again.”

you sat there in silence for a few seconds, your heart pounding against your ribs like a prisoner demanding release, your pride fencing every emotion like a guard dog on steroids.

and because you can never sit in vulnerability without throwing a knife to feel balanced, you finally muttered, voice low, biting, but thinner around the edges:

“if you start defending her, i swear to god i’ll shove your plants up your ass root-first.”

nanami blinked, then nodded, dead serious, as if you hadn’t just threatened him with horticultural assault. “i’m not defending her. i’m explaining myself to you, because you deserve that.”

your jaw clenched again, and though the rage was still there, the ice around it had begun—just barely—to crack.

you sighed, dramatic, exhausted, wiping at your lower lash line with your thumb like the tears were dust you could remove and pretend never existed.

“okay,” you muttered, still refusing to fully face him. “go on. i’m listening. finish the monologue before i change my mind and kick you out.”

and nanami—ever patient, ever steady—continued. and the more he spoke, the harder it became to keep your armor intact. his voice wasn’t trembling or begging, he wasn’t groveling or panicking — no, that would’ve been easier to reject. instead, he spoke in that devastatingly calm, steady, nanami way, the way that slipped past your defenses because he wasn’t trying to win, he was trying to understand you.

“you don’t deserve to share space with doubt,” he said, tone low, warm, maddeningly sincere. “you don’t deserve to question your place in my life. you are the person i choose, every day, in every room. i should’ve made that impossible to doubt — especially for you.”

you swallowed, your throat clicking, jaw locked so tightly that your teeth ached. you looked everywhere but at him: the chandelier reflection in your mirror, your perfume bottles arranged like a shrine to your vanity, your silk pillowcases, the edge of your nail on your thumb — anything that wasn’t his eyes because you knew one direct second of eye contact would flatten you.

nanami didn’t move closer, didn’t reach out, didn’t try to touch you before you allowed it — and that alone made your chest twist painfully. he knew pressure would make you bolt, so he simply sat there, giving you space to break at your own pace.

“i love you,” he continued, voice smoothing out like velvet pulled taut, “and i don’t expect you to hide your feelings or pretend you’re unaffected. you feel deeply — loudly — and it’s overwhelming sometimes, yes, but it’s also one of the things i adore most about you. you love in color. in flame. in extremes. i would never want to dim that.”

your lip trembled — actually trembled — and you pressed your teeth into it to physically punish the weakness.

nanami’s voice gentled even more, if that was somehow possible. “i will make sure you never feel like a second option again. i will be clearer. firmer. i will not leave room for anyone to assume my attention is available. i’m yours. you don’t need to fight for that.”

you breathed out — a fragile, uneven sound that almost wasn’t a breath at all. something in your ribcage shifted.

your shoulders sank an inch.

your fists loosened.

your vision clouded.

you hated it.

you hated how easily he could peel your rage back and expose the soft, shaking thing beneath. hated how his calm didn’t belittle your chaos — it held it. hated how he didn’t match your fire with ice or irritation, but with something worse: understanding.

you blinked, and a second tear slipped — traitorous, slow, warm against your skin. you swiped it away angrily, like it offended you. “fuck you,” you muttered — not hateful, not sharp — just broken. “fuck you for talking like that. i can’t stay mad when you talk like that.”

nanami’s gaze softened so achingly you had to glance away again. “i don’t want you to stay mad. i just want you to feel safe with me.”

your breath hitched — actually hitched — and suddenly the space between you felt unbearable. the absence of his touch felt like a scream against your skin.

you slid forward on the bed — once, hesitantly, like pride was clinging to your ankles — then again, knees brushing his, breath shaky, silk whispering across your thighs. nanami didn’t move, didn’t reach first, didn’t break the fragile consent of your approach — he waited, letting you choose him.

you moved that final inch — your knees between his legs, your hands trembling as they reached for his shoulders — and then you climbed into his lap, settling with your legs curled around him, your forehead pressing into the warm column of his neck like you were hiding in him, not hugging him.

the moment you made contact, nanami’s arms came up — slow, careful, then firm — wrapping around your waist with the kind of hold that said i’m not letting you go unless you ask me to. one hand cradled the back of your head, fingers sinking into your damp hair, the other anchored at your spine, steady, grounding, warm.

the first sob was silent — a sharp inhale into his shirt, your nails clutching at his shoulders like you were falling and he was the only surface left on earth. the second made a sound, a small broken one, like a wineglass cracking.

nanami tightened his arms around you, one thumb stroking the back of your head, his lips brushing your temple, voice low against your skin. “i’ve got you. i’m here.”

you hated how safe it felt — hated how quickly you melted — hated that after all your swearing and threatening arson and botanically themed murder monologues… you were crying in his lap anyway.

you sniffed against his neck, voice muffled, angry even through tears: “you’re still a piece of shit.”

nanami nodded into your hair. “i know.”

you curled tighter into him, your pride bleeding into his shirt, your voice cracking, “but you’re my piece of shit.”

his hand stroked your back, slow, intentional — the kind of touch that rebuilt things quietly. “always.”

and just like that, the storm inside you finally collapsed — not because he forced it to, but because he sat in it with you until you could breathe again.

it took a while—long enough for your breathing to steady, long enough for your fists to unclench in the fabric of his shirt, long enough for the heat behind your eyes to settle into a dull throb instead of a storm. you stayed in his lap even after the crying slowed, face tucked into the warm crook of his neck, your weight fully resting on him now like your body had finally surrendered to the truth that you felt safest with the same man you threatened to bury alive with his plants.

his palm stroked your back in slow, absent circles, the kind that weren’t meant to hush you but to anchor you. it was disgusting how much it worked.

after a long stretch of quiet—your kind of quiet, the heavy kind where pride is still limping around the room—you exhaled against his skin, voice rough, reluctant, and grudgingly soft.

“…i shouldn’t have… lost my shit like that.”

nanami didn’t speak, just hummed, a subtle vibration against your cheek that meant i’m listening.

you shifted slightly on his lap so you could look at him, but you didn’t move far—you stayed close enough to breathe the same air, your fingers still curled lightly over his shoulder, your forehead almost touching his. your voice stayed low, as if it would break if you raised it.

“i was fucking mean,” you muttered, eyes darting away because eye contact made honesty more painful, “i insulted your hobby like it’s stupid and i know it’s not stupid. it makes you happy. it gives you peace or whatever. and i shit all over it like a bitch having a tantrum.”

nanami cupped your jaw with one hand—not forcing you to look at him, just holding you gently, thumb brushing your cheek with steady warmth. “you were hurt. you reacted from that place. i don’t take it personally.”

you rolled your eyes with a watery scoff, wiping your face with the sleeve of your silk top, smearing your expensive moisturizer but not caring for once. “you should take it personally. i called you soil jesus. who even says that? what the fuck is wrong with me?”

the corner of his mouth twitched—the ghost of a smile—but he kept it small, respectful of your fragile dignity. “you’re passionate. and dramatic. it’s part of who you are.”

you glared half-heartedly. “that’s a diplomatic way to say i’m a fucking menace.”

“you are,” he agreed evenly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face and tucking it behind your ear with maddening tenderness. “but you’re my menace.”

you inhaled sharply, offended at how easily that softened you again. “stop saying things like that. it makes it hard to stay mad and i deserve to be mad for at least another six business days.”

nanami leaned in just enough that his forehead almost touched yours, his voice dipping lower, sincere in a way that stripped you bare. “you don’t need to punish yourself for feeling jealous. or threatened. you’re human.”

you clicked your tongue. “i don’t want to be human. i want to be a god. untouchable.”

nanami’s thumb stroked your cheek again, slow, grounding, annoyingly gentle. “i don’t want an untouchable goddess. i want you. spoiled, dramatic, sharp-tongued, mean when you’re hurt, soft when you think no one is watching—you.”

your chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t painful, it was warm and terrifying.

you sniffed once, shifting again in his lap to hide the growing softness in your features. “i’m still sorry for being… like that. insulting your club. your plants didn’t deserve that verbal abuse.”

“no,” nanami said calmly, “they didn’t.”

you glared, offended that he agreed so easily. “you’re supposed to say ‘no, baby, you were totally valid in threatening my rosemary.’”

nanami’s lips curved slightly. “you weren’t valid in threatening my rosemary.”

“fuck you,” you muttered, but it had no heat. “i’ll poison your basil first.”

he nodded, indulgent. “i know.”

you sighed—heavy, dramatic, collapsing your full weight against his chest like the universe exhausted you. your fingers fisted lightly in his shirt for stability as you mumbled into his collarbone, voice muffled:

“i am such a bitch sometimes.”

nanami’s hand slid up your back, resting at the nape of your neck, his thumb rubbing small, rhythmic circles there that made your muscles melt one by one. “yes,” he said softly, honestly. “you can be… very mean.”

you jerked back just enough to glare at him, eyes still glossy, mouth open in disbelief. “you’re supposed to disagree, you emotionally constipated goldfish!”

nanami held your glare without flinching. “you asked me to listen and be honest.”

you blinked at him, then let out a short, incredulous laugh. “…i hate that you’re right.”

“i know,” he repeated, with infuriating calm.

you stared at him a second longer, lips parted, then shook your head slowly, your voice lowering into something almost vulnerable, almost small.

“and you still want me? like this? spoiled, mean, psychotic gremlin behavior and all?”

nanami didn’t hesitate. not even a breath.

“i like my girl spoiled and mean,” he said, voice warm and sure, eyes steady on yours. “i love you exactly as you are.”

something inside you cracked again—but this time it didn’t shatter into sharp pieces.

it softened. melted.

you swallowed, heat burning behind your eyes again, but you didn’t fight it this time as you leaned forward and rested your forehead against his, your voice breaking in a whisper, “you’re still a piece of shit.” nanami smiled—small, real, adoring—and whispered back, “i know.”

you end up horizontal without even remembering the transition — one moment you were sitting on his lap falling apart like a wet cupcake in the sun, the next nanami was lying beside you on your absurdly large bed, both of you under the soft weight of your overpriced duvet. the room was dim now, only the soft bedside lamp on, throwing a warm gold across his cheekbone and making him look disgustingly gentle, the kind of gentle that made your chest ache in that embarrassing, sentimental way you would sooner die than admit in daylight.

you were curled against him, your head on his chest, your leg thrown over his like you owned every square inch of him (you did), and his hand was in your hair — fingers combing through the damp strands slowly, over and over, like he was memorizing the texture of you. his other arm was wrapped around your waist, palm splayed over your back, thumb tracing slow circles beneath the silk that made your skin warm.

your voice came out small, muffled against his shirt, “are you staying tonight?”

you hated how you sounded — soft, almost shy, like a child asking if the thunder would stop — but nanami didn’t tease, didn’t smirk, didn’t make you regret vulnerability. he tightened his arm around you, his nose brushing your hair as he answered, voice low enough to settle into your bones,

“yes. i’m not going anywhere.”

you exhaled, long and slow, your fingers fisting lightly in the fabric at his chest, not in anger this time but in that instinctive don’t leave yet way that made your throat squeeze. “good. because if you left after all that emotional nonsense i’d actually pull a juliet and poison myself.”

he huffed a laugh against your forehead — quiet, warm, fond — and pressed a soft kiss there, his lips lingering like he was sealing the promise into your skin. “please don’t poison yourself. it would ruin the sheets.”

you swatted his chest weakly, raising your head to glare at him with no heat left in your body. “i hate you.”

he tipped his head slightly, eyes half-lidded, soft in the lamplight as his thumb brushed your cheekbone. “you love me.”

your lips twitched. “tragically.”

he smiled — a real one, warm and a little tired from the emotional hurricane you put him through — and he pulled you closer, tucking you just under his chin so he could speak against your hair. “i love you more than i know how to say. more than anything.”

his fingers traced lazy patterns along your back, not stopping for even a moment, like he needed the contact as much as you did. you let yourself melt into him fully now, all the claws retracted, all the sharpness dimmed. it was embarrassing how good it felt to be held like this — safe, wanted, adored — and you hated how much your body relaxed because of him.

“i missed you,” you murmured into the fabric of his shirt, and this time your voice didn’t come out defensive or dramatic — just honest, soft in a way only nanami ever got to hear. “i was so pissed at you and i still missed you the whole time.”

he angled his head down, his lips brushing your temple again, then your hairline, then the corner of your forehead — as if he was following a map of where to place comfort. “i missed you too. more than i expected. i didn’t like the distance. not from you.”

you shifted up just enough so that your face hovered near his, your nose brushing his jaw, your fingers moving to lightly trace the line of his throat — slow, absent, intimate. “you better never do that again,” you whispered, soft threat with no teeth left behind it. “i can’t handle missing you and being mad at you at the same time. it’s emotionally exhausting. i could’ve died.”

nanami smiled into your hair, one hand sliding down from your back to your hip, resting there with a protective weight that made your heart turn into warm pudding. “i won’t. i’ll do better. i promise.”

you sniffed, leaning up to press a tiny, barely-there kiss at the corner of his jaw — feather light, like your lips were shy now that they weren’t arguing. “good. because you’re mine. and i’m yours. and i don’t share.”

his grip tightened at your hip, gentle but firm, like the words hit him somewhere deep. “i know. and i don’t want you to.”

you hummed, content now, your body molded against him like you were crafted to fit there. his hand drifted up again, sliding into your hair, fingers massaging your scalp slowly, like he wasn’t even thinking about it — just needed to touch you in some way, any way, constantly.

“you’re very clingy,” you whispered, eyes growing heavy.

he kissed the top of your head again — slow, deliberate, warm.

“only with you.”

you smiled — soft, sleepy, safe — and buried your face in his chest again, breathing him in like warmth, like home. for once, you didn’t feel like you had to perform, or prove, or defend, or win. you just existed in his arms, and he held you like that was enough.

it turned out nanami wasn’t just a man who talked pretty—he actually followed through, which was infinitely more dangerous for your heart because now you couldn’t even stay mad at him for fun. the very next day, when you showed up at the greenhouse after class — not because you suddenly cared about plants, but because you needed to see his promise in action — he proved himself in 4k HD.

you arrived looking like sin among seedlings: hair perfect, lip gloss expensive, outfit curated to silently declare “i own the man in charge here”. the greenhouse smelled like damp soil and mint and academic overachievement. nanami was inside, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing while watering something green you didn’t know the name of but decided to internally call “future pesto.”

he noticed you instantly — his entire posture softened, jaw unclenching like you were oxygen. he put the watering can down and walked straight to you, one hand sliding around your waist with a confidence that made your pride purr. he pressed a brief kiss to your temple in greeting, low enough for only you to hear when he murmured, “hi, sweetheart.”

and then—she appeared.

utahime and her tragic bangs, holding a notebook like she was auditioning for a role in “botany for people with no charisma.” she approached, clearing her throat, and launched into yet another question, voice way too chipper for a woman who should’ve learned fear by now.

“nanami, can you explain again why the rosemary is wilting even though i watered it twice? i think i’m still doing something wrong—”

nanami didn’t even let her finish.

he turned slightly, keeping you tucked to his side, his hand on your waist tightening possessively — polite, but unmistakably boundary-marking — and said in a level, courteous tone that somehow carried a scalpel:

“i’ve explained that twice already. i’m spending time with my girlfriend now — you can ask one of the senior members for help.”

the silence that followed was delicious, like a gourmet dessert made of karma.

utahime blinked, startled, clearly not expecting the polite brick wall. “oh, i— right. sorry, i didn’t mean to—”

you smiled sweetly, leaning your head onto nanami’s shoulder, nails tracing along his forearm as you added, voice dripping with honeyed poison:

“maybe try listening next time. watering every time you feel emotional isn’t how plants work, babe.”

utahime stiffened. nanami squeezed your waist — warning, but gentle — though you could feel him trying not to laugh. she retreated toward some other helpless club member, and nanami turned his face into your hair for a second, exhaling like he was holding back amusement.

“be nice,” he murmured.

you scoffed, pulling back to look at him. “i was educationally constructive. i’m contributing to the learning environment.”

he kissed your cheek. “you’re impossible.”

you smirked, looping your arms around his neck. “and you like it.”

later that week, the friend group witnessed Proof #2: nanami’s boundary olympics.

you were all at your usual table — coffee, snacks, gossip, geto reading something philosophical he didn’t understand. you sat on nanami’s lap, his arm around your waist like a permanent seatbelt, your legs draped over his like you owned the throne and the king.

utahime walked into the café — of course — and spotted you all. either god hated you or you were starring in a sitcom. she approached, smiling like she wasn’t the antagonist in your personal novella.

“oh! i didn’t know you guys were here. do you mind if i join?”

already pulling a chair. already delusional.

before you could unsheathe your verbal knives, nanami beat you to it — politely, gently, firmly.

“we’re having quality time with our friend group right now,” he said, voice almost warm but with an iron spine. “maybe another time.”

shoko, sipping her iced coffee, didn’t miss a beat. “yeah, we’re trauma-bonding. it’s exclusive.”

gojo grinned with all teeth, draping himself over the back of his chair. “also we’re at maximum capacity for straight-laced energy. one more person with no sense of humor and we’ll combust.”

geto added thoughtfully, “we reached our quota of new people three years ago.”

haibara waved apologetically, “maybe next time! like… next century.”

utahime froze, blinked, and did the walk of shame back to the counter.

you leaned in, whispering into nanami’s ear with prideful satisfaction, “i could kiss you right now.”

nanami didn’t hesitate — he turned and kissed you softly in front of everyone.

gojo gagged loudly. “okay but i didn’t mean in front of me, have some respect for my single trauma.”

you flipped him off without looking.

and the thing is — nanami didn’t just do it once for show.

he kept doing it.

day after day, little actions stacking like bricks rebuilding trust. when utahime approached him during club, he redirected her to literally anyone else. he kept you close — hand at your back, fingers intertwined, lips brushing your hair, gentle touches that said mine without needing to say it

he included you deliberately in plant conversations, explaining things properly — not simplified, not dismissive. he sent you photos of his plants with captions like “this is thriving. like us.”. when people asked about his schedule, he said, “i’m with my girlfriend,” like it was a valid unbreakable appointment (it was). he texted you good morning and goodnight like rituals of devotion. he left club early to walk you to class, iced coffee in hand, your order memorized down to ice quantity and foam thickness

and slowly — painfully, annoyingly, wonderfully — your anger had nothing left to feed on. nanami didn’t leave space for doubt anymore. he made it obvious — to you, to your friends, to utahime, to the plants, to the universe — that you were his priority.

one evening, as you curled into his side again, your voice barely above a whisper, you muttered, “…you’re still a piece of shit.”

nanami kissed your forehead, fingers tracing your spine.

“i know,” he murmured, “but i’m yours.”

and this time, you didn’t argue.

[ami6rii]

threesome fics where the guys are also into eachother rlly awaken the demons inside me..

[capytala]

You Watch Satoru Top Suguru

Summary: When Suguru asks to bottom, you and Satoru take advantage of the opportunity.

CW: MDNI, top Satoru, bottom Suguru, anal, hand job, f!receiving oral, spanking, hair pulling, use of sex toys, threesome, established relationship, poly marriage, squirting, overstimulation, teasing, degradation, self imposed cucking? Ig, masturbation.

WC: 3.9k

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦

“I want to watch him fuck you, I’ll join later.” You say as you settle yourself at the head of the bed.

Suguru is on all fours facing you and Satoru is standing behind him, lathering his cock with lube.

“I can’t even taste you while he fucks me?” Suguru asks in a distressed tone.

“Maybe,” you pull your panties to the side to give him a glimpse of your wet center. He moans at the sight and drops his head in frustration.

Whenever Suguru asked to bottom, there was always a buzz of excitement between you and Satoru that you couldn’t hide. Watching the man who usually dominated be dominated was intoxicating to witness.

Satoru rubs soothing circles on Suguru’s ass, “Are you ready for me to take it out?”

Suguru nods his head and you can tell his whole body is tense in anticipation.

You watch Satoru’s hand go for the base of the plug, he winks at you before he makes contact. He starts pulling it out, so slowly that it’s making you tense up. Suguru groans to himself as the plug slowly pops out of his hole.

Once the plug is dislodged, Satoru taps it on Suguru’s ass, “Okay, it’s out!” He tosses it to the side of the bed. His left hand grips Suguru’s hip bone and his right is on his throbbing cock.

“Fuck, please go slow… it’s been a while for me.” Suguru murmurs out, his head still dropped to the mattress.

“I can’t make any promises, you know how excited I get to fuck you.” Satoru grins as he puts his tip at Suguru’s entrance. He pumps himself a few times once he’s lined up.

He starts pushing his hips forward and Suguru’s legs are trembling. His hole is being stretched to the max by his husband's thick cock. You watch as his breaths become uneven even though you can tell he’s trying to control them.

“Babe you gotta loosen up. You’re so fucking tight.” Satoru gets out through gritted teeth. He’s already enjoying this.

“I told you it’s been a while, give me a minute.” Suguru whips his head over his shoulder to glare at Satoru.

“Well I’m not even half way in yet and your asshole is already strangling me.” Satoru says with a shit eating grin.

Satoru knew he had a huge dick and he knew how to use it. And he loved watching you and Suguru squirm from the fullness and stretch he put your holes through.

“Sugu, honey, just watch me, okay?” You say in a soothing voice as you pull your panties down past your ass.

His eyes are locked onto you like you are his life line right now. His eyes follow your panties all the way down your legs. Once they’re at your ankles, you kick them off in Suguru’s direction. They fall under his chest and his head falls down to stare at them.

He can see your wetness smeared all over them and the sight makes his cock twitch, “God, you soaked through them already.” He says as his eyes make their way back up to you.

Satoru pushes in another inch in, “Just seeing her soaked panties got you to loosen up some, you’re such a slut.” He lands a smack on Suguru’s ass to emphasize his point.

Suguru’s eyes are heavy and dark as he stares into your soul.

“Should I finger myself or play with my clit first?” You ask in a playful tone.

“F-finger! Finger yourself for me.” Suguru says with a pathetic plea.

You smile at him and place your fingers right at your opening. You graze your middle finger back and forth through your wetness, gathering it on your finger tip.

“Once Satoru’s all the way in, you can have a taste.” You smirk at Satoru and Suguru whines in response.

You push a finger inside your cunt and Suguru’s mouth is salivating at the view. Your back is against the head board, your hair is down and falling past your shoulders. Your feet planted on the bed and legs spread wide to give your husbands the best view.

You moan and your eye lashes flutter at the sensation, enjoying how your finger easily slides inside you. You pump your finger in and out and build a steady rhythm.

Satoru pushes in further, you can tell he’s almost fully in. Suguru moans but isn’t tense anymore. His hole is swallowing Satoru’s cock inch by inch.

“You’re taking him- so well baby.” You pant out while still pumping your finger. Suguru’s eyes are glued to your finger that keeps disappearing inside of you. Satoru’s gaze is focused downward, watching his cock disappear into Suguru.

“Are you feeling good?” Suguru asks with furrowed brows and his mouth stays open once his question is uttered. He looks absolutely famished.

“Of course. You know I love touching myself while I watch.” You extend your leg out and graze your toes along Suguru’s forearm. You can see chills rise up through his skin.

Satoru thrusts his hips forward and bottoms out inside Suguru. Satoru lets out a satisfied “Ah” and moves his other hand to Suguru’s hips, pulling him back onto his cock.

Suguru squeezes his eyes shut and mutters a string of profanities to himself. When he opens his eyes back up, they’re unfocused. It takes him a moment to recenter his eyes to you.

“You’re doing so good for us, Sugu.” You draw your finger out of your center and start to lean forward.

“Do you want to taste me still?” You cock your head and teasingly ask.

“Fuck yes!” He’s begging to taste your arousal that’s coating your finger.

You bring your finger forward and touch it to his lips. He immediately opens up his mouth and sucks your finger in fully. Your breath hitches at his desperation. His hot tongue swirls around your finger. His cheeks are hollowed in with how much suction he’s applying.

You share a knowing glance with Satoru. You both have Suguru wrapped around your fingers right now - literally.

Once you’re sure your finger is clean, you forcefully pull it out from the hard suction with a POP.

Suguru is panting and looking at you like he’s already asking for more. You settle back against the head of the bed and nod to Satoru.

He pulls his hips back and begins thrusting. He’s being nice and taking it slow on Suguru to start.

Both of Suguru’s hands grip the bed sheets and you watch as his shoulder muscles twitch and spasm.

“You’re so big, Satoru. I’m so full.” Suguru is already whimpering from the sensation of Satoru’s thrusts.

After Suguru adjusts to the fullness, he starts pushing back into Satoru when he bottoms out.

Satoru bites his bottom lip and brings his left foot up from the floor, planting it next to Suguru’s knee. Suguru fucked up by showing his neediness this early because Satoru was going to take advantage.

Satoru keeps the same pace but deepens his thrust. His thrusts are now jolting Suguru forward everytime he bottoms out.

“You looove to act like you can’t take my dick, but look at how needy you’re already being. Already pushing back into me and I’ve barely started fucking you.” Satoru is getting high off this feeling and you can tell. He’s getting that feral look in his eyes that makes your stomach jump up into your throat.

You start fingering yourself again and not to feed Suguru, but to feed your own desire that’s growing. You loved to sit back and watch your husbands fuck each other. It never got old and it always got you off.

You moan from your own fingers and the sight in front of you. Satoru looks to you with those feral eyes, “Do you like watching me fuck our husband, y/n?”

You add another finger for more stimulation and are plunging them deep to find your gspot. “Y-yes, you should see his face right now.”

Suguru’s eyes are rolling to the back of his head and there's drool running down the side of his mouth. Your view was so arousing, it gave you gender envy that you didn’t have a cock to fuck Suguru with.

Satoru leaves his left hand on Suguru’s hip and brings his right hand to his loose pony tail. He pulls Suguru’s head back until he’s looking at the ceiling. The new position forces Suguru’s back into a perfect arch.

Satoru picks up his thrusts and begins pounding into Suguru, using his ponytail as leverage to deepen his thrusts. Your eyes are focused on Satoru’s lower stomach, the way his abs flex and spasm from how deep his thrusts are. You can see his silver happy trail peaking up over Suguru’s ass. The veins leading down to his cock are engorged under his pale skin.

Your fingers aren’t doing enough, you turn over in a hurry to your night stand and get out your rose toy.

Satoru doesn’t even see what you’re doing, he’s so focused on fucking into Satoru and making the entire bed move from his efforts.

“You’re not even clenching anymore, you’re staying open for me. You’re taking me so well, pretty boy.” Satoru praises and Suguru cries out in response.

“You’re fucking me so good.” Suguru manages to grunt out.

You turn on your toy and place it directly over your clit. You gasp loudly at the contact and your eyes roll to the back of your head.

“Baby, let me taste you again. I can make you feel s-so much better than- than...” Suguru can’t finish his sentence, but you know what he was going to say.

“I don’t know, you look kinda busy. Are you sure you can handle both of us?” You’re teasing but you want his tongue on you just as much as he wants to taste you.

“Yes, I-I can handle it, please.” He’s looking at you with the most pitiful eyes. How are you to deny your husband when he looks this fucked out?

You turn off your toy and move your ass down the bed. You get to where you’re lying flat on your back and Suguru’s meal is spread out directly below him.

He tries to keep his balance from Satoru’s thrust. Satoru doesn’t care that Suguru’s trying to split his focus, he’s chasing his high regardless of what Suguru wants to do.

Suguru drops his lower half down and Satoru releases his pony tail. He moves his head to between your legs and you gaze down at the masterpiece below you: Satoru’s feral eyes and evil grin while he fucks into Suguru; Suguru’s pitiful eyes and fucked out look on his face. You could cum right now just from this image alone.

You can hear their balls smacking together and their skin skidding against each other. Suguru brings his lips to your thighs and is trying to be sweet. But Satoru’s aggressive thrusts are making it hard for him to land soft kisses down your thighs. Every time he makes contact, his mouth is forced into your skin.

You grab his hair at the crown of his head and push his head into your throbbing cunt. You don’t need the pleasantries, you need his tongue inside you.

Satoru looks at you with those same feral eyes and is electrified by watching you be pleasured as well. You feel a fire ignite inside you just from the way Satoru is looking at you, as if he’s going to jump over Suguru and start fucking you next.

Suguru’s nose rams into your clit and his tongue is frantically moving through your folds. He’s trying to drink every drop of you he can get. The extra stimulation of his face bucking into you from Satoru’s thrusts is pure euphoria.

“You taste amazing, sweetheart,” he mumbles as if his mouth was full of food (it kinda was).

You grip his hair tighter, you’re squirming beneath him so much. It’s hard for him to keep himself centered between you and Satoru’s movements.

You desperately want to keep your eyes locked on the pornographic scene in front of you, but the pleasure washing over you keeps pushing your head back into pillows.

Suguru’s tongue is working its way inside you and you can’t keep your thoughts straight. His thick tongue is bouncing into your walls, making you clench and bow off the bed.

Suguru’s hand trails up your thigh until he meets your hand. He laces his fingers through yours and looks up at you. His eyes are burning a hole into your soul, as if he’s talking to you without saying a word. You watch as his face muscles move in sync with what you’re feeling his tongue do. You squeeze his fingers every time his nose rubs into your clit. You can’t tell if it’s intentional or accidental. Regardless, it’s sending a shock of electricity through your pelvis each time he does it.

He releases your interlocked fingers and replaces his tongue with two fingers. When he detaches his mouth, there’s a string of his spit and your arousal that follows him. He plunges his fingers fully inside you in one pump and his lips attach to your clit. Your back bows off the bed at the instant ecstasy and your body seizes. He’s applying the same suction to your clit that his mouth was applying to your finger earlier. You cry out and both of your hands fly to the top of his head to hold on.

“Damn Suguru, what are you doing? It looks like she’s already about to cum.” Satoru lands a motivating spank on Suguru’s ass.

Suguru’s moans against your clit are acting as your very own custom vibrator. His deep growls of desire electrify you and his face is still rutting into you from Satoru’s thrusts.

“Su-!” You go to cry out his name, but it gets caught in your throat when his fingers forcefully curl into your g spot. He’s moving his fingers with such force, it feels like he’s trying to pull your gspot out of you.

You don’t even know what you're saying because Suguru’s fingers and tongue have taken full control of you. You’re trying to scream his name, but you’re not sure if it’s coming out coherently. His fingers tips are assaulting your gspot from the inside while his tongue assists from the outside. You start to feel that feeling catch inside you and you know you’re about to be done for. The match has been struck and the first ember is lighting deep inside your core.

“Keep going, I-I’m…” You don’t finish your sentence because you can’t speak anymore. You are so high off this intoxicating pleasure. Suguru understands what you’re experiencing and keeps a steady, thorough pace. He has his fingers and tongue set on autopilot to do the same exact motion to get you to your destination.

You realize you’ve had your eyes shut so tight, you were seeing stars behind your eye lids. You blew your eyes back open and marveled at your husbands. Suguru’s eyes were still locked on you and Satoru is now staring at you. There was sweat matting his silver hair down against his forehead. You could see both of their bodies covered in a thin sheen as well. Your eyes jumped back and forth between the two of them, not knowing who to keep your focus on - they both looked so beautiful right now.

Satoru grins at you like he’s about to land a final blow, “If you’re screaming like that for him, wait until it’s my turn. I’m not anywhere close to being done with either of you.”

And that’s what makes the dam inside you break, literally. The waves start crashing over you so hard, your face is contorting into the most ridiculous shapes. The sensation inside you feels like someone is pressing down into your stomach. You’re letting out cries in between short, ragged breaths. Your eyes are crossed behind your eyelids and the stars are dancing against the darkness.

And then you feel a spurt of warm liquid flood out from your center. It pulses out along with your spasming walls. You hear the fluid hit against Suguru’s face and you can feel the linen beneath you start to retain the moisture. Suguru’s fingers slow down to make room for the impact and Satoru’s stills his thrusting, “Oh my god, that was so fucking hot.” Satoru looks amazed as he stares down at the mess you’ve made all over Suguru’s face and the bed.

You’re still disassociating from the high you were on, it takes you a moment to understand what he was saying. You look down between your legs and see Suguru’s face soaked with your arousal. He’s licking his lips clean while you hold eye contact. Your breaths are shaky and your thighs are trembling from the electricity that just pulsed through you.

Satoru leans over Suguru and grabs his ponytail, “Now that he’s done with you…” Satoru yanks Suguru up and he lets out a yelp. Satoru manhandles his husband, using his ponytail like it’s a leash. Satoru brings Suguru’s chest up and pulls him back until Suguru is sitting on his knees.

You’re still reeling from your orgasm when you realize Suguru is now hovering above you. His soaked mouth falls open while Satoru moves him into their next position.

Once Satoru has them situated, he moves up onto the bed and is kneeling behind Suguru. He wraps Suguru’s ponytail around his hand and moves his other hand to Suguru’s throat. He leans over to Suguru’s ear and whispers, “This is where you’re weak, right?” Satoru begins pistoning his hips into Suguru so hard, it jolts him forward. Before he can fall forward, Satoru gives another tug on his pony tail, “Where do you think you’re going?” Suguru is a whimpering mess beneath Satoru.

You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch Satoru fuck Suguru stupid. Suguru is trying to moan, but Satoru’s hand on his throat is preventing any noise from coming out. You look down and see Suguru’s leaking cock is bobbing up and down from the force behind him. Every time the tip touches the linen, it leaves a dot of moisture behind.

You push yourself up and crawl over to them. You stand on your knees in front of Suguru and place both hands on his face.

Satoru pipes up, “Coming to join? Fuck - was cumming all over his face not enough?” He’s still holding Suguru in his hands and fucking him relentlessly. You don’t answer, instead you try to steady Suguru’s head and place a soft kiss on his lips. You can still see your arousal covering his mouth and lower face.

You bring one hand down to between his thighs and gently grab his cock. He winces at the contact and his eyes roll back. “What can I do to make you feel good, Sugu?” You coo.

Satoru releases his grip so Suguru can speak, “T-touch me, please please…” He sounds as pathetic as he looks.

You wrap your hand around his cock and swirl your thumb on the tip, “Here?” You ask, feigning ignorance.

Suguru tries to nod his head, but Satoru’s other hand is still holding onto his hair.

“You’re so greedy. Is me fucking you not enough? You need her on your cock too?” Satoru spits out as if he’s disgusted. But you know that’s just part of the act he’s playing up.

You can tell Suguru is reeling from the overstimulation, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to form words, but can’t. Instead of torturing him anymore, you start moving your hand up and down his length to align with Satoru’s thrusts. Satoru is fucking him so hard, you don’t even need to move your hand much. You just place it over his length and let Satoru’s thrusts do most of the work.

Suguru moves his hands to grip onto your hips, his grip will likely leave bruises with how hard his finger nails are digging into your skin. You move forward and rest your chin over Suguru’s shoulder and pucker your lips at Satoru. He releases his grip on Suguru and dives forward, smashing your lips together. He growls at the taste of you and forces his tongue into your mouth. You open to grant him access and moan at the feeling.

You and Satoru are a team effort in wrecking Suguru right now. Your hand is still working his aching cock while Satoru pounds into his fatigued hole. Even though you’re both focused on Suguru, you still need a taste of each other.

Satoru’s tongue motivates you to quicken your movements on Suguru and start to twist your wrist. Suguru shudders at the stimulation and is literally shaking between the two of you. You and Satoru have poor Suguru smashed in between you while you make out over his shoulder.

Satoru notices the incessant shaking and breaks your kiss to move his lips to Suguru’s ear, “Are we too much to handle?” He nips and tugs at Suguru’s gage with his teeth. Suguru sucks in a breath and shakes his head ‘no’.

You put your free hand to his cheek and look at him in pity, “So fucked out you can’t even speak, can you?” You look over to Satoru and share a devilish grin. You drop your hand to make room for your lips and start trailing kisses from Suguru’s cheek to his neck. When you get to his neck, you playfully bite down until he reacts, squirming between you two. Satoru follows and starts working on the other side of Suguru’s neck.

You’re both drinking him in, licking and leaving sloppy wet kisses all over him. You feel Suguru’s cock start to twitch and he hisses to himself.

You keep pumping him at the same pace and try to hit all his spots: kissing behind his ear, tugging on his gage, panting into his ear. Suguru cries out and you can feel his body seize against you. “Shit, shit, oh my god!” He cries out and you feel the first hot spurt of cum slide over your knuckles.

You look down and adjust your grip to get tighter when it moves toward the head to milk every drop out of him. His hips buckle downward and he’s whimpering and crying out both of your names as he finishes all over your hand.

Satoru slows down his thrusts until Suguru has come down from his high. He stills inside him and smacks his ass as he pulls out. You let go of Suguru and your hand is absolutely covered in him. He slouches forward, chest heaving, and trying desperately to catch his breath. You keep your soiled hand down and place your other hand on Suguru’s shoulders. You rub gentle circles to try and ground him.

You look over to Satoru and see his cock is still engorged, “Did you finish?”

“Not yet,” he says with a shrug of his shoulder and moves out from behind Suguru. He makes his way over to you until he is looming over top of you, “Do you think you can squirt on my cock like you did on Sugu’s face?”

Part 2 Here

✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

Master List

I gooned for 2 whole shifts to bring forth this work of literature. New work hack: writing smut on the clock makes the shift go by way faster.

[ruya4four]

heavy metal ✮⋆˙ toph x reader

✮⋆˙ synopsis: toph uses her metalbending to prove that you can’t hide a single secret (or craving) from her.

✮⋆˙ content warningsﾉtags: NSFWﾉ18+ (MDNI), explicit smut, fem!reader dom!toph, cunnilingus, metalbending, improvised toys, teasing, edging, not proofread, lowercase intended

✮⋆˙ author's note: based on this request!! this is prolly the craziest request i've written yet. god bless dadaman toph and her muscles.

the air in the cave is cool and damp, carrying the heavy scent of wet limestone and the faint, metallic tang of toph’s armor. 

she’s currently buried between your thighs, a force of nature that refuses to be ignored. her hands, calloused and strong from years of earthbending, are gripped firmly around your hips, anchoring you to the stone floor she’s softened just for this. you can feel the vibration of her laughter against your sensitive skin before you even hear it—a low, rumbling sound that mirrors the steady heartbeat of the earth itself.

she’s eating you out with a messy, focused hunger, her tongue swirling with an agonizing precision that makes your toes curl into the dirt. every few seconds, she pulls back just enough to let out a muffled comment, her voice vibrating against your clit. "wow, you’re really shaking, aren’t you? i can feel your pulse jumping all the way in your toes. i didn't know i was that good, or maybe you're just that desperate."

you let out a sharp, fractured breath, your fingers knotting into her long, messy hair as you try to push her back down. "shut up, toph. please, just... shut up and finish."

the vibration stops instantly. she pulls away, sitting back on her heels with a slow grace that makes your skin scream for the return of her warmth. you find yourself let out a pathetic, high-pitched whine, your hips arching instinctively to follow her, but she stays just out of reach. her unseeing, milky eyes are fixed somewhere over your shoulder, a smug, lopsided grin stretching across her face.

"did the little lady just tell me what to do?" she asks, her tone dripping with a mock-offended sweetness that makes your face burn. "i thought you were enjoying the commentary. it helps me keep track of how close you are to melting into a puddle."

you’re practically begging now, your voice a soft, breathless wreck as you look at her. "toph, don't be mean. i didn't mean it, just... i'm so close. please."

she sighs, a dramatic, huffing sound that echoes off the jagged cave walls. she tilts her head to the side, staring blankly at a cluster of stalactites as if she’s searching for inspiration in the silence. suddenly, she lets out a sharp, clicking sound with her tongue—an oh! of realization that makes your stomach flip with a mix of confusion and dread. she remembers a specific shape, a specific weight she’s felt through the soles of her feet in the darker corners of the earth kingdom’s bustling markets.

toph reaches out a hand, her fingers twitching in the air. a few feet away, a discarded crate of iron scraps begins to rattle, the metal shrieking as it’s torn from the wood. you watch, mesmerized and horrified, as the shards fly toward her, hovering in a swirling cloud of grey. her arm muscles ripple beneath her tunic, the definition in her shoulders and biceps on full display as she begins to mold the iron with the focused intensity of a master smith. she’s sculpting, you realized, her brow furrowing as she feels the internal structure of the metal shift and smooth under her command.

the realization of what she’s making hits you all at once. the jagged edges melt away, replaced by a thick, rounded head and a long, sturdy shaft that curves slightly at the tip. 

it’s unmistakable. 

your jaw drops, a hot flush of mortification sweeping from your chest up to your hairline. "toph! how do you even—how do you know what that looks like?"

she barks out a loud, rough laugh that echoes like a landslide. "sugar tits, i don't need to see to know what people are hiding under their floorboards. i’ve felt the vibration of these things in half the inns we've stayed at. you think people are quiet? they’re not. and the shape is pretty intuitive once you realize what it’s for."

she flicks her wrist, and the newly formed metal dildo—still warm from the friction of the bend—hovers over your entrance. she uses the magnetic pull of her bending to brush the tip against your swollen folds, teasing the sensitive skin with a cold, hard contrast that makes you shiver. "this is so weird," you lie, your voice cracking as you try to pull your legs together. "toph, seriously, this is... it's weird. put it away."

toph’s smirk only deepens, her head tilting as she 'listens' to the floor beneath you. "you’re a terrible liar. your heart is hammering against the stone like a trapped sparrow. it’s practically screaming at me to keep going. why do you bother lying to a woman who can literally feel your muscles twitching?"

you start to splutter out an excuse, something about the coldness of the metal or the absurdity of the situation, but she cuts you off with a sharp, flicking motion of her fingers. the metal dildo prods firmly against your opening, the weight of it immense and uncompromising. before you can even draw a breath to protest, she slides it in—one smooth  motion that stretches you wide and fills the aching void she left behind.

a choked, jagged moan escapes your lips as you feel the solid, unyielding weight of the iron inside you. it’s different from her tongue, different from her fingers; it’s a constant, cold pressure that makes you feel utterly conquered. toph moves her hand in a rhythmic, back-and-forth motion, her eyebrows raised in concentration as she feels the resistance of your internal walls through the metal.

she starts to increase the speed, the dildo thrusting into you with a mechanical, tireless force that no human could ever match. you’re squirming against the stone, your heels digging into the dirt as you try to find a rhythm, but toph is the one in control of the pace. she begins to talk, her voice low and raspy, vibrating through the air and the floor.

"look at you, shaking for a piece of scrap metal i just pulled out of the trash. you like how deep it goes, don't you? i can feel your cunt gripping it, trying to hold onto it. you’re so wet i’m surprised you haven’t short-circuited the bending yet. give it to me, sugar tits. let me feel exactly how much you can take before you break."

you’re biting your lip so hard you taste copper, desperate to keep the loudest of your moans from bouncing off the cave walls, but it’s a losing battle. the metal is moving so fast now, hitting your g-spot with a blunt, rhythmic thud that makes your vision go dark at the edges. you’re a mess of friction and sound, your body reacting to the cold iron as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

toph leans in closer, her face inches from yours, her breath smelling of mint and earth. she can feel the tension in your thighs reaching a breaking point, the way your entire skeletal structure is vibrating with the impending release. she slows the bending for just a second, a cruel, calculated pause that makes you sob out a plea.

"you can let go, you know," she whispers, her voice a rough caress. "i’ve got you. the earth isn't going anywhere. just let it out so i can feel the impact."

the permission is what finally undoes you. you let out a long, shuddering scream that tears through the silence of the quarry, your body bucking upward as the orgasm ripples through you in violent, agonizing waves. you’re so embarrassed by the sheer volume of it, by the way you’re clutching at her arms as if she’s the only solid thing left in the universe.

toph waits until the last of your tremors has faded into a soft, twitching heat before she calmly bends the metal away. she guides it back to the scrap pile, the iron shrieking one last time as it settles into the dust. she leans forward then, her movements surprisingly gentle as she presses a soft, lingering kiss to your inner thigh, right where the skin is most sensitive.

she pulls back, sitting in the dirt with her legs crossed, a massive, shit-eating grin plastered across her face as she wipes a stray smudge of dirt from her cheek.

"see? i told you iron was good for more than just armor. next time, maybe don't try to lie to the girl who can feel your toes curling from a mile away."

anon... thank you for ur service.

[flimsily-flimsy]

Birds don’t sing was so sweet and beautifully written <3

Could you write a toph x reader oneshot with tophs (and readers) daughters Lin and Suyin? Just them parenting together and being all domestic and sweet.

THE MOMENT

Masterlist

Word count: 1.4k

Pairing: Toph Beifong x gn!Reader

Synopsis: Simply a beautifully chaotic morning with Toph and your daughters, Lin and Suyin; busy and exciting in all of the right ways.

A/N: Thank you for the compliment and the request!! :) I should heavily preface that I haven’t had the chance to watch the Legend of Korra YET, so I hope this isn’t inaccurate or mischaracterising, I tried to research it for this

There are some noises that are only synonymous with nature. Even in Republic City, there are still glints of these: with the occasional rustle of decorative trees or the coo of birds gliding throughout the buildings; it’s a city endlessly diverse in every aspect and its environment is no exception. Without this ambience, the air would be empty, stale even. But with it, the streets have something to fall back on.

This is especially apparent early in the mornings. Aside from Toph’s unruly snoring, your shared bedroom is draped in a warm atmosphere. Sunlight beams through the windows, small particles of dust dance under its rays while that same ambience decorates the air with an easy serenity before the bustle of the morning. It’s the calm before the chaos.

Though, of course, that calm doesn’t last so long when you’re raising the daughters of Toph Beifong.

The quickly approaching patter of footsteps only prove that.

Initially, neither you nor Toph rouse at the noise, so used to the constant bounce of excitement that it doesn’t phase you. If anything, you curl further into yourself with a sleepy sigh, sinking deeper into the mattress. Meanwhile, Toph sprawls out across the blankets behind you, her bed head fanned out over the pillows with her hand resting on your hip. It’s only when another pair of heavier footsteps follow that you stir.

“Come on, Suyin! You don’t have to wake them up this early.” Even in your half-awake haze, you know unmistakably that it’s Lin, 11 years old now. “The sun isn’t even fully up!”

“But if I wait, then we may not have the time to do it!” A younger voice whines; your 5 year old, Suyin.

“That wouldn’t matter if they’re annoyed by it! You know how mum gets in the morning: cranky… irritable.”

“I know.” You can almost hear the pout in Suyin’s voice. “But I really want some, Lin.”

With a yawn dragging down your face, you stretch your arms above your head with a satisfied groan. “What’re you both doing out there?”

The voices disappear for a long moment. You hear what might be Lin muttering: “Now you’ve done it.” Until the door handle squeaks and the wood creaks open, revealing their silhouettes against the sunlight.

While Lin has already grown quite tall, Suyin looks small beside her. The scowl that pulls at the edges of Lin’s expression tells you she’s probably been bothered with whatever this is for at least an hour now. But the adorable way that Suyin bats her eyelashes and pads across the room to your side of the bed, pulls at your heart strings too much for you to feel too irritated.

“You’ve been keeping your sister awake, huh?” You ask as she reaches you, instinctively reaching out to pick her up and place her atop your lap.

A cheeky grin crosses Suyin’s face as she steadies her hands on your biceps. “Not really.”

“It’s been an hour!” Lin protests, crossing the room to your side.

“Nu-uh!”

“Yeah!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“What’s going on?” Toph groggily interrupts beside you, throwing one of her arms over her eyes as she turns to your direction.

“Well…” Lin encourages, gently nudging Suyin’s shoulder with that familiar ease that’s formed between the sisters. After all, no matter what you do, Suyin always follows her spirit first then faces the scolding later, especially at the hands of Lin.

Suyin shyly glances around the room before quietly speaking. “Well… I just wanted something.”

Your eyebrows raise. “And what’s that, honey?”

Her shy look falls into a mischievous grin as she meets your eyes. “Pancakes!”

“You’re up this early for pancakes?” Toph groans from beside you, not a morning person as true to your daughter’s earlier words. Though, a lighthearted smirk pulls at the corner of her mouth.

“That’s what I’m saying!” Lin exclaims. “It’s too early!”

“But we need time to make them!” Suyin argues, wriggling slightly on your lap in protest.

Toph huffs once more, Lin tiredly rubs her eyes but a light laugh falls from your lips as you sit up properly.

“Come on… please?”

Outside, the city might just be waking up, the tendrils of stress beginning to sneak in with every car that passes outside. But inside your room, the air is so light and warm that your answer comes easily.

“Sure, let’s go to the kitchen.”

–

Under the rising sun, the room almost looks picturesque. While you can’t ignore the nagging presence of dishes in the sink nor the children’s drawings haphazardly tossed across some of the counters, the pancakes look mouth-watering where they sizzle in the pan.

Suyin peeks over the edge of the table, grinning at Lin and exaggeratedly wriggling her eyebrows in an attempt to get a reaction. You see Lin glancing over at her from the corner of her eye, almost as though she’s trying to appear nonchalant even when her shoulders tighten in an attempt to conceal any amusement.

Beside you, Toph navigates the kitchen with ease, pulling out a cup for each person and carefully preparing some refreshing tea. You tenderly reach out to brush a stray hair out of her face, tucking it gently behind her ear. She grins, turning to press a feather-light kiss to your wrist before you’ve fully pulled away.

“Ew!” Suyin exclaims at the sight, pulling a laugh from Toph.

“Get used to it.” She jests.

“Can we just get to the pancakes already?” Lin speaks up, leaning back in her seat as if a fraction more distance would be enough to get the affection to stop.

You chuckle, smiling at them over your shoulder. “Come on, we’re not that bad!”

“Yes you are!” Lin exclaims.

Suyin giggles, lightly banging her fists on the table in encouragement.

With a huff of faux disappointment, you turn back to the pan and flip the pancake before pulling some plates from the cabinets.

It takes a few more minutes of pouring and flipping until you’ve piled up the pancakes on a dish. A light steam twirls up from the top as you turn around, able to see how all 3 of them light up with grins at the sight of the food. It’s comfortingly domestic and, even with their naturally chaotic energy, you can’t help the beam that cements itself on your face in return.

“Smells amazing, babe!” Toph exclaims, having set up the tea across the table.

“Mhm!” Lin hums enthusiastically.

“It’s so good!” Suyin agrees, already stuffing pieces of a pancake into her mouth.

“Just try not to be messy.” You attempt to warn, though you can already see syrup drooping from the edge of Lin’s plate. “We have to clean this up before you go to school.”

Suyin’s enthusiasm instantly dissolves with a groan. “School’s so boring though! We’re not even practicing our bending today, there’s no point in going there.”

“Well, actually, history is pretty interesting.” Lin points out with a smug shrug when she sees the argument instantly bubble up in her younger sister.

“No! I want to actually do stuff. My teachers are so cool when they’re showing off!”

“Not as cool as me though, right?” Toph asks with playful seriousness as she points her fork in her daughter’s direction.

“Almost!” Suyin exclaims with a laugh. “You are the best earthbender, mama!”

“I know!” Toph playfully agrees, shrugging it off with an exaggerated pride that makes your daughters giggle. “Don’t have to tell me twice!”

If you weren’t so used to it, this amount of energy in the morning would probably be exhausting. The explosive banter combined with the bright laughter creates such a cacophony that you’re probably waking the animals outside. Yet, you know that any later exhaustion would be worth it for even a minute of this joy.

Though, as you push the last forkful of food into your mouth, you can’t help the almost childish mischief bubbling up in your chest as you interrupt the peace. “You’ve got to get ready for school now.”

“No! Really?” Suyin whines, dramatically dropping her head to the table.

Lin laughs with such a rare lightness for her that it makes your smile grow even more. “Beat you upstairs!” She yells before practically leaping out of chair and bounding to out of the room.

“Hey! Unfair, you have to give me a warning!” Suyin yelps as she speeds after her.

Toph grins from beside you, leaning back in her chair and throwing her arm over your shoulders.

“And you,” You start, leaning into her side. “Need to get ready for work.”

“Maybe just give me a couple more minutes.” She murmurs, leaning closer to you as a smirk grows on your face. “You didn’t give me my morning kiss yet.”

Title’s song: The Moment by Tame Impala

[sashimitilapia]

why are there no toph and katara fics 😭😭😭😭😭

[pinkmirth]

𝒩𝐸𝒞𝑇𝒜𝑅.ᐟ ❤︎ ft. adrian ‘ alucard ’ țepeș!

CONTAINS ⨾ ( 2.5k+ ) words of . . . nsfw, adrian ‘alucard’ țepeș x vampire!fem!reader ( black coded ), canon-divergent, set in the set in the 15th century ( late 1400s ), established relationship, soft-dom!alucard, nasty rawww freaky ass vampire sex, missionary, blood-letting, blood drinking, size difference, use of pet names ( e.g. love, darling, iubire, etc. ), explicit language, lowercase intended, minors shoo! 

𝓂𝓎 𝓁ℴ𝓋ℯ 𝓁ℯ𝓉𝓉ℯ𝓇.ᐟ ❥ requested by the lovely @rsv3n! thank you for the splendid idea <3 i think lulu would be veryyy open to a blood-sharing ritual — actually he’s a little too excited, lol >.< he’d love teasing you with that thick, red sweetness, swapping the liquid between your tongues as he fucks you nice 'n deep mmm . . that’s as intimate as can be, and he wants to be irrevocably close to you . plsss hubby is just so in love <3 please enjoy this little blood-stained drabble, and thank you for reading! ❤︎

𝐼𝒩𝒮𝑃𝒪 𝑇𝑅𝒜𝒞𝒦.ᐟ ( ♫ )  drunk in love, beyonce ⨾ candy, cameo ⨾  a little death, the neighborhood ⨾ whatever you want, tony! toni! tone! ⨾  join me in death, HIM ⨾  blur, the marias

dhampir blood is cloying, to put it best. sticky, syrupy, and far more potent than any mortal vein. your husband had been kind enough to let you drink in that confirmation just hours ago. 

castlevania’s the ancient stone held the chill of a thousand transylvanian winters, but within alucard’s grand bedroom suite, the air was just about thick enough to tangibly cut through. on the floor lay a forgotten graveyard of finery — stiff silk corsets and a froth of ruffled lace embroidery cast aside in the height of your lustful fever.

with a reverence that treats you like glass, alucard has you laid upon velvet furs, dropping you tenderly as if you weren't immortally powerful. he lowers his own body down to yours, defined and beautifully scarred, until his limbs entwine with your own and the cold of the castle fades into a distant memory. 

your skin remains so soft to the touch, holding this otherworldly glow; even after turning into something devoid of life. in the guttering candlelight, his pale skin looks like polished marble, the flickering flame highlighting the pink slash of his flesh scar, a stark contrast to the heat radiating between your cold, pressed bodies. he was only one part mortal, a beautiful contradiction you find it to be — and beneath his ribs, half of a heart still drums a slow, heavy rhythm. 

alucard’s hips find their home between your thighs once he finally sinks into you. you bracket the slim taper of his waist with your trembling legs, head throwing back as he presses the slippery crown of his pretty cock past the sticky schism of your puffy lips. you moan so deliciously whenever he enters you, a sound as coaxing as a lullaby; he doubts he’s ever heard anything sweeter. 

his wispy blonde lashes flutter whenever your gushing hole contracts just enough to squeeze around the girth of him. he swears your heartbeat never truly left you; it must’ve simply gone down to your cunt, waiting for his touch to call it back to the surface. he begins to press into you with slow, deliberate rocking. it utterly delights him — watching you mewl at the stretch he brings, breasts swaying with each thrust deep, grounding thrust he feeds you. 

“adrian . . mmm, d—don’t hold back on me,” your plush lips are agape, the sliver of your precise fangs shining as you puff out sultry breaths of air out between them. “please, my love, fuck me faster,” you plead, the soft ache of knowing you can handle him — and that he knows it too — melting thick and heavy between you. 

your stiletto claws glide like the flat of a smooth blade over his skin, tearing vivid lines of crimson down the pale, broad canvas of his back. a low chuckle spills from him, dark and sweet like honeycomb, sending a deep, rhythmic throb straight through your core. there’s no need for words; you both know the truth by now. he craves the bite of your pain.

“whatever you wish, my dear,” he indulges your request, no matter how bratty your whims might be, and takes a firm hold of your waist; hands locking onto the dipped curve of it, anchoring you to the bed, to him, so he can plow into your sopping pussy until the sharp collision of slapping skin casts the wettest, most lewdest of echoes throughout his bedchamber. your voice breaks into a scream of pure delight, a sweet kind of sound that vibrates through the room, making the ancient wallachian-pine of the bedframe creak and groan beneath every heavy drop he makes into you. 

he begins to groan out your name between labored huffs, fangs bared with every breathless moan that slips out from his bobbing throat. adrian lowers his head, a curtain of golden hair cascading around him as his dark gaze fixes on the exact point where he enters you — over, and over, and over again. 

you peer up at him lovingly, trace the image of your angel of a husband; watching as the base of his throbbing cock sheathes in deep, just to reappear with every heavy, punctuated drive of his hips. his abdomen flexes tightly with the effort. higher up, his thin brows are drawn up, pearly teeth grit, and his nose scrunched as his eyes squeeze shut in the pure surge of pleasure. then, your gaze drifts, zoning in on his exposed throat. 

you find yourself fixated on the slender, elegant line of his neck, tracing the way it curves seamlessly into his shoulders and collarbone — you’ve always held a soft spot for it, your lips constantly drawn to kiss and nuzzle the skin there. the sloping protrusion of his adam’s apple catches your gaze of how he swallows down his pooling desire, all as you eye that subtle vein running along the side, pulsing with every breath. 

the curiosity has lived in you for so long — the wonder of what a dhampir’s blood might taste like . . . what alucard’s would taste like. as the intensity between you builds, your dilated eyes blow wide, mouth parting as you fixate on his neck. your focus narrows entirely on the way the veins running along it grow prominent, with all the exertion he’s putting into fucking his darling wife so, so well. 

your husband’s always had the uncanny ability to anticipate your thoughts, even before you act on them. his eyes snap open, catching you in the act; as if the sudden, ebbing heat in his flowing arteries have already warned him exactly where you want to bite. the hammering pulse in his throat begins to thrum harder. 

“ah, you thirst . . . is that it, my love? shall I grab a chalice?” he delivers an especially grinding thrust, pairing it with the humble swipe of his thumb over your clit. you whine, you nod, you weep, all from the sheer pleasure of it. your head tosses against the pillows, the thorny edge of your nails sinking into his shoulder blades until fresh, bright blood spills and beads over your grip. it takes everything in your being to keep your hands from drifting up to your awaiting tongue. 

“hnnn! y-yes, but I . . . I want yours,” you manage to gasp the words out, even as the heavy force of his rhythm knocks the breath right from your lips. your eyes lock — your glassy, completely dilated gaze catching the piercing gold of his. in that silent, breathless look, everything clicks. he finally gets it.

“you — haah, you wish to taste of me?” adrian questions, leaning down low, slowing his thrusts and fucking into you harder, deeper, as if to pound the truth out of you. you nod, teary and needy, hands trailing up to caress either side of his neck, warming his silken skin with your open palms.

“mhm,” you whisper, “i’m sure you’re sweeter than any wine . . .” your teeth catch your bottom lip, aching for the moment his potent blood finally drips onto your tongue. you clench around him at the mere thought, a sudden heat that ripples through you both. adrian feels your pulse throb in perfect tandem against his skin as his hips continue their slow, heavy roll. 

“fuck,” he manages out, the word torn from his throat. he never imagined a desire so dark would excite him so. “for how long have you yearned for this?”

“far too long, my love,” you mewl against his skin, pressing stray, wet kisses up the length of his neck. your fangs lightly graze his sweat-sheened throat, catching right over his adam’s apple. you suck gently against the pulse point, the sharp friction causing him to twitch and jump deep inside you with a sudden, ragged gasp.

“resist no longer, iubire.” he whines lowly, the muscles of his thighs and core flexing hard against you with every deep shove. “take what you want.”  alucard gathers his long blond hair in one hand, sweeping the heavy tresses over his shoulder to bare the smooth expanse of his neck. you gaze up at him, mapping the absolute submission written on his face. his golden irises gleam back at you in the dark, glinting with a sharp, needy excitement as he waits to feel your fangs against his skin.

as if to soothe your hesitation, he implores you with the breath of a command against your skin. "drink of me." he whispers, his voice a low, heavy vibration that seems to echo through the silent stones of the chamber.

sliding up the smooth, warm expanse of his neck in your hands, you bring your lips to his skin with a grateful reverence. leaning in, you allow your fangs to graze the hot skin of his jugular, tracking the frantic ba-dum of the pulse that marks his human heritage.

when you finally, finally, bite down, alucard lets out the sharpest, most ragged breath, his hands locking onto your hips as he bucks up into you at the welcome intrusion. his rich dhampir blood surges into your mouth — a potent, velvety syrup that tastes of concentrated life and a deep, metallic sweetness that coats your tongue like the most saccharine nectar.

“hngh, y—yes, yes, yes . . .” his eyes scroll back into his head as you cradle his beautiful face in your hands, completely helpless under your touch as you drain him, lapping his blood hungrily into your mouth. the fluid is intoxicatingly rich and warm, sliding down your throat like a heavy, golden essence that could only belong to a dhampir. he trembles beneath you, utterly consumed by the way your tongue sweeps along his major artery, siphoning every sugary drop of the rich blood he so willingly surrenders to you.

you let out a soft, gratified moan at the cloying sweetness of him; though not entirely drinking every ounce he offers. you hold some of the thick velvet syrup behind your teeth — gathering just enough in your mouth to perform the ancient ritual you have next in mind. pulling back just an inch, you meet his gaze with a heavy, unblinking focus, your plush mouth stained with the red coppery-taste of his life-force. 

alucard blinks down at you hazily, his golden eyes blown out and dazed as he groans against your lips. when you finally press your mouth back to his, the exchange is thick, visceral, and wet; nasty and lawless, just as vampires would do. your fangs clash against his — a sharp clicking of ivory, as you share a desperate kiss that blends salt and iron. the rich essence slicks your tongues, and alucard greedily drinks his life-force straight back from your mouth.

alucard tilts his hips into yours with a slow, grinding force, his large frame pinning you flat against sheets of romanian silk as he slides deeply inside you. his hands find yours against the soft bedding, his long fingers sliding between your own to intertwine and lock your palms tightly together. the direct friction of his thighs against yours generates a massive heat that matches the warm syrup coating your tongues. 

he pulls back just an inch, his eyes glowing a fierce gold in the dim light as he gives one final, bone-deep shove that leaves you both trembling. his lips are stained a deep, beautiful red, mirroring your own — an eerily visual proof of the truest, most pure way for your kind to love, carving out a permanent sanctuary that exists completely outside the mortal world.

“never thought my wife would be so . . . thirsty,” he muses, swiping his tongue over your lips. you can feel him smiling against them, a soft and intimate pressure. you’re nearing closer to the edge, all from the searing taste of his blood, every sensation amplified to a fever pitch. he is also hazy from the feeding, his movements turning drawled and heavy as he rolls into you.

“c–cumming,” he huffs, grinding his pelvis down into yours one last. “mmm . . me too,” you clasp your arms around his neck, pulling him down into a messily wet kiss as your walls pull taut around him, reaching your climax with a silent scream released straight into his mouth.

he returns the intensity, fucks shallowly into your gripping cunt; spilling thick, lukewarm ribbons of his heavy load deep inside you. you both rock into each other, riding the high of it all with shut eyes, panting into each other’s mouths until the heat finally peaks. adrian lifts himself off of you to lay beside you, his strong arms coiled around your waist to pull you close against his chest.

side-by-side in the stillness of the chamber, you lay curled together on the plush bedding. the ancient castle grows still, though the heat of the moment remains between you. he drowsily blinks his heavy eyes open, his cheeks a beautiful, shaded rose that deepens into a rich crimson. his mouth is slightly agape, the lower lip stained with the bright, copper taint of his own life-force. 

“you still look rather . . . parched, my love.” his hand slides up to caress your waist, his smile widening slightly as he offers you his bare throat. his fingertips trace the wet bite marks on his neck, marveling a bit at the funny, new sensation of being on the receiving end of those punctured holes. knowing the wounds will knit together soon, he silently urges you to lean back in and get some more before his flesh heals over.

“come, dragă mea,” he insists, pulling you in closer by your waist until you're flush against him. bringing his thumb up, he slowly swipes it over your reddened lip, his mirthful golden eyes searching yours. 

“don’t you want more?” 

© 𝒫𝐼𝑁𝐾ℳ𝐼𝑅𝑇𝐻.ᐟ ⸻ all rights reserved! do not steal, plagiarize or repost any of my works. reblogs are highly appreciated! please and thank you! ❤︎

[snowynns]

ᘛᰍ𝅄 ׁ 𝓟.𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄 ! 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐘 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒𝐎𝐍

♡. 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐲𝐬 : Oh Ser Jackson, his Majesty, son and prince of the enemy kingdom, marrying you? This had to be a horrifying nightmare orchestrated by the gods.

♡. enemies to lovers, royal AU, percy's pov over letters, arranged marriage, percy is downbad, wedding night, porn w plot, f! oral, spitting, p n clit sIapping, fíngering, pussiedrunk, virginity loss (both), mating presses, manhandIing, size difference, creampie.

For as long as history could remember, the Kingdom of Solis had never bowed to famine, plague or the old gods when they demanded blood from daughters and called it the supposed duty of women.

And certainly not to the seas.

Your kingdom stood where the sun touched first. At the highest crest of the southern cliffs, where the mountains broke into gold-veined stone and warm rivers ran like melted amber through the valleys below, Solis rose in white marble and sunlight. Its palace—Helion Keep—sat upon the highest point of the capital, carved into the mountain itself, where your family had decided it belonged accordingly.

From your chambers, the entire kingdom unfolded beneath you.

Terraced gardens spilled down the cliffs in levels of jasmine and ivory roses. Long bridges of pale stone connected towers crowned with the gold of the sun. Markets below shimmered with silks dyed saffron, crimson, and royal blue. Even the guards looked as though they had been painted there— with bronze armors polished beneath the afternoon and spears gleaming like second sons of the sun.

Nothing in Solis fitted the word subtle. Your mother used to say that subtlety was for kingdoms with something to hide.

Solis had power and power deserved spectacle.

Which was why your bedroom ceiling had been painted like the heavens themselves.

You stared at it now from your chaise lounge, one silk-slippered foot dangling over the edge, a book forgotten in your lap as your ladies fluttered uselessly around the room.

“My lady—” “No.”

“Just hear—” “No.”

Lyra, your longest-suffering handmaid, pinched the bridge of her nose.

“You have not even heard what I was going to say.”

“I know enough from your face to know I dislike it.”

“But my lady—.”

“Maybe I'll ask Father to cut off your head if you keep talking,” was your last reply before opening again the neglected book.

Beyond the open balcony doors, warm wind stirred the gauze curtains, carrying the scent of orange blossom from the lower gardens. Somewhere in the palace courtyard, musicians were rehearsing for the evening banquet.

As soon as your ears heard your mind translated it to nobles and diplomacy matters which = your father was about to ruin your day.

You sat upright. “Who has arrived?”

Lyra hesitated and immediately, your stomach dropped.

“My lady—”

In a second you were crawling between the no-longer-so-tidy sheets of your enormous bed, trying to escape any responsibility that might be placed on your shoulders that very night.

“Tell Father I have died.”

The door to your chambers opened.

Your father, King Helios III of Solis, entered with those golden robes that didn't help to walk, ceremonial rings and the expression of a ruler carrying the weight of six hundred years of war and at least three immediate headaches. (Mind you, you were one of them.)

“Father.” You said, voice muffled by the sheets.

He sat next to you, uncovering and holding your cheeks. “My sun flower.”

“Before we begin, I would like it noted that I may be against this conversation.”

“That saves us both time.”

Wasn't that wonderful? Your kind father wasn't going to torture you for long, only as long as necessary.

You narrowed your eyes. “Who is here?”

He did not answer, a bad sign already. Instead, he studied you with the same expression he wore over battlefield maps.

“The delegation from Atlantis arrived this morning.”

Your father continued, because tyranny now extended into parenting. “Their High Council has requested formal peace negotiations.”

“No.”

Well, that was your favorite word today, wasn't it?

“And proposed a political union between our kingdoms.”

His voice remained maddeningly calm but across the room, even Lyra looked like she wanted to flee.

Marriage to Atlantis.

To the kingdom that had spent centuries raiding your ports, destroying your fleets, and sending awful diplomats.

Your father stood by the open balcony doors, where the last of the evening light poured gold across the marble floor and turned the edges of his robes to fire, and for a long moment he said nothing at all, as though he were deciding which version of the truth a daughter deserved—the one told to princesses, fit for history books, or the one reserved for kings, heavy with graves and numbers and the kind of silence left behind after battlefields emptied.

You didn't need to hear the histories again.

For as long as memory had been kept in ink, the Kingdom of Solis and the Kingdom of Atlantis had belonged to one another only in violence.

No historian could agree upon where it had begun.

Some claimed it was the pride—that ancient kings, both too proud to bend and too convinced the gods themselves favored their bloodlines, had turned a bunch of differences into a holy inheritance of hatred. Others insisted it had been love, which was to your eyes eugh; a Solis princess promised to an Atlantean prince centuries ago, drowned before the wedding could take place, her death blamed upon betrayal, her body never returned. There were old songs still sung by servants in the lower kitchens that spoke of storms swallowing ships in mourning and the sea refusing to calm for an entire year.

Your tutors preferred politics.

Trade routes, they said, while pacing before maps stretched across classroom walls, fingers pressing into painted oceans and mountain borders. Salt and grain. Ports and taxes. Control of the eastern coast. Access to the southern straits. Men liked to call war honorable when it was always about ownership.

As a child, you had preferred the pride story. It felt more according to your personality .

Less pathetic than admitting entire kingdoms had slaughtered one another for generations over shipping rights or over the incident of a princess.

Regardless of how it had begun, by the time you were born, hatred was tradition and lived in the palace walls as naturally as sunlight did.

You learned it in stories told by your nursemaid while she brushed your hair before bed, tales of sea-born princes with smiles like sharpened knives and queens who lured sailors into drowning with songs sweet enough to make men forget they had lungs. Or in the way servants spat over their shoulders whenever Atlantean ambassadors were mentioned, as though the very name invited misfortune.

You learned it in your first history lessons, seated far too straight at ten years old while your instructor, old and severe and permanently offended by joy, pointed to battlefields on maps and recited casualty numbers as though they were scripture.

You too knew your great-uncle had died on the western fleet before you really understood what fleets were. You knew your grandmother still refused pearls because they reminded her of Atlantean royal gifts sent during failed negotiations thirty years before. You knew there were entire wings of the palace where portraits had been removed because the people in them had been lost to the war and your mother could not bear to look at the empty spaces their absence left behind.

Even celebration was about that hate.

Victory festivals filled the capital with gold banners and music and dancers in the streets, but always there was the undercurrent—that joy only existed because somewhere else, someone had been defeated.

Atlantis—always Atlantis—remained something distant and monstrous, less a kingdom and more a threat given architecture.

You imagined it often as a child.

Not as it truly was, but as children imagine enemies when they have only stories to build from. A place of endless storms and black oceans, where the sky was always bruised and the people had blue blood.

Their cities were rumored to be carved from the ocean floor itself, their palaces built into cliffs black with salt and age, their people born from sea water and tempers to match.

As a child, you had believed every ridiculous whisper.

That they slept in flooded chambers beneath the moon. That their royal family could call hurricanes with prayer alone. Even that if an Atlantean kissed your hand, your lungs would fill with seawater and scales would sprout all over your body!

You were embarrassingly old before you stopped half-believing Atlanteans did all this stuff.

Outside, a thunder rolled softly somewhere beyond the southern mountains.

Your father had been talking and you heard nothing, his hands clasped behind his back.

“The war has lasted longer than your grandmother’s reign. Our soldiers are exhausted. Trade routes are broken. We can't rebuild villages faster than they can be burned. Every season costs us more lives.”

You crossed your arms resigning yourself to listening to your father's words.

“And who, exactly, is the unfortunate sea creature demanding my hand?”

“Prince Perseus Jackson.”

Prince Perseus Jackson—the heir of Atlantis, called the Tide Prince by enemies and far less flattering names by your generals. Commander of fleets. Breaker of the Eastern Siege.

Oh merciful gods, this could still be a bad joke!

You had believed, with certainty at thirteen, that Prince Perseus had the head of a fish, and not in the metaphorical way.

You remembered announcing this with confidence at breakfast, explaining to your mother that it was the only reasonable explanation for why no formal portrait of him had ever reached Solis, and if the Sea Kingdom was so determined to hide their prince, clearly it was because he had scales and unblinking eyes and perhaps gills where a proper neck ought to be.

Your brother laughed so hard he nearly choked on fruit.

Your mother, with the kind of patience only queens and saints possessed, had simply informed you that royal diplomacy would be significantly more difficult if you insisted on addressing the foreign prince as trout.

Finally the King moved toward the door.

“The formal announcement will not be made until tomorrow evening. You have tonight.”

“For what?”

“To decide whether you will make this difficult with dignity,” He opened the door to get going. “…or dramatically, which I assume is your preference.”

Lyra approached carefully, like one might approach a wild animal considering arson.

“My lady?”

You turned slowly. “If I throw myself from the balcony, do you think they will still make me attend dinner?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

This was tragic.

You walked to the balcony, gripping the stone rail.

Far beyond the golden city, beyond the cliffs and the rivers and the sunlit valleys of Solis, the sea stretched blue and endless toward a kingdom you had never seen.

Somewhere beyond that horizon was the man who apparently intended to marry you.

That same afternoon you were given a letter with the Jackson house seal. It was a deep blue color with subtle marine details embedded in silver ink.

You opened the seal with a small knife, considering at some point using it to tear the paper and send it back to him like that.

The parchment was expensive, thick and smooth beneath your hands, edged in so much silver ink it felt unnecessarily elegant. Even his stationery was smug.

You unfolded the letter slowly, suspicious already.

You expected some beautifully phrased threat disguised as diplomacy, or even the arrogance a lot of men used.

What you did not expect was this:

Dear future wife,

I was informed—repeatedly, and with great suffering on all sides—that it would be politically beneficial for me to write to you before our families force us into the same room. Apparently silence is considered poor courtship over Solis.

I argued that forced marriage should excuse a lack of romance, but your future in-laws are, unfortunately, optimists.

So.

Hello.

By now, I assume your father has explained the arrangement, and I imagine your reaction was somewhere between dignified outrage and the active consideration of murder. If so, I find that deeply reassuring. I would be concerned if you accepted this.

I am told you dislike my kingdom.

In fairness, the feeling is mutual, so at least we begin with honesty.

I know what Solis says of Atlantis. I imagine I have horns by now. Possibly scales. Someone, somewhere, has likely informed you I keep drowned sailors in the palace walls and sharpen swords on their bones.

For the record, only one of those things is true.

I will not insult you by pretending this marriage is romantic.

It is political, inconvenient, and being treated by every advisor around me as though it is the personal triumph of diplomacy itself, which should tell you how unbearable my week has been.

But it may also keep our kingdoms from spending another hundred years trying to bury each other, and I am selfish enough to think that sounds preferable.

You should also know that I did attempt to refuse.

This was received badly.

Mostly because I offered no convincing reason beyond “I would rather not.”

Apparently that is not how treaties work, my future queen princess.

So here we are.

I know enough about you to suspect you are proud, difficult, and entirely too intelligent to tolerate fools for long, which means we may survive this if I am careful and if you are feeling unusually merciful.

I will offer one promise, since everyone else seems determined to offer you expectations.

I do not intend to make a prisoner of you.

If this marriage happens—and it will, because neither of us is being consulted nearly enough—I will not ask for sweetness where there is none, nor obedience where it is not deserved.

That feels, at the very least, like fairer warfare.

Until we meet,

Prince Perseus Jackson.

P.S.

If anyone has told you I have the head of a fish, I regret to inform you the rumor is false. I am unfortunately very handsome.

—

Well, that last part was reassuring if we ignored how narcissistic those last words were. So your future husband was going to be the enemy army general? This could cause a scandal throughout the kingdom.

The next morning arrived with all the grace of an execution as the formal announcement was to be made by sunset which meant, according to the women of the palace, that your suffering needed to begin at dawn.

You were woken not by sunlight, nor birdsong, nor any peaceful luxury afforded to a princesses in a sentimental poem, but by the violent betrayal of curtains being thrown open and six women entering your chambers.

You opened one eye.

“Noooo, five more hours.”

“It is too late for no,” Lyra informed you, crossing the room with the merciless efficiency of a woman who had planned your downfall in advance. “The ambassadors have arrived, your father has requested your presence by evening, the entire court talking about the most scandalous political arrangement of the decade, and Lady Cassandra has already selected your gowns.”

You pulled the pink silk sheets over your head. “Tell them I drowned in cushions.”

“Given the circumstances, that may be interpreted as an insult.”

Fantastic.

You emerged from the blankets with all the dignity of a martyr and stared at the room now transformed into your own personal execution.

Your dressing table had disappeared beneath brushes, combs, perfumes, pins, ribbons, jewels, and enough cosmetics to prepare five royal engagements. Two younger maids were carrying in fresh basins of steaming water scented with lavender and orange blossom. Another stood near the wardrobe, holding garments draped over both arms like ceremonial offerings to an unwilling goddess (you).

At the center of it all stood Lady Cassandra, the royal dressmaker, who regarded human emotion as a minor inconvenience beneath the importance of her tailoring.

An hour later, you were regretting every decision that had led you to birth.

Your hair had been washed in rosewater and combed until your scalp hurt. Your skin had been rubbed with oils that smelled faintly of jasmine. Someone had forced tea into your hands while another woman debated with Lady Cassandra about the dress options.

You sat before the great mirror of the room while half the palace adjusted your existence around you.

“I don't like this,” you muttered as one maid fastened a bracelet around your wrist while another argued over pearls.

You met your own reflection.

Princesses, you had decided long ago, were merely decorations for the palace too.

Everything about the royal presentation was important. From the colors you wore, the stones at your throat, the embroidery at your hem— they were literally selling you out in the eyes of the enemy kingdom.

Unfortunately, Lady Cassandra agreed on that.

She approached carrying the gown and for one terrible moment, you forgot how to speak.

It was blue.

Not the pale blue of spring skies or harmless ribbons, but the deep, impossible blue of the sea just before a storm—the kind sailors prayed to and feared in equal measure. Rich silk spilled like water between her hands, layered with silver-thread embroidery that caught the light like moonlight on waves.

At the bodice, delicate patterns of curling foam and cresting tides had been stitched so finely they seemed alive, winding around your waist and ribs. Tiny freshwater pearls had been sewn into the design too—not enough to seem excessive, but enough that when you moved, they shimmered like drops of sea spray.

The sleeves were long and sheer, trailing at the wrists in translucent silk, while the skirts fell in heavy folds that whispered over the marble floor. At the neckline, subtle silver beading formed the shape of stars and compass points.

The maids moved quickly after that, slipping the gown over your shoulders, fastening hidden closures, smoothing every line until the dress sat against you like a second skin.

It was beautiful and that made you hate it immediately because it suited you.

The blue made your skin glow warm beneath the sunlight and turned the gold in your jewelry brighter and the silver embroidery made you look like a princess being offered to make peace.

Lyra stepped beside you, adjusting the final necklace at your throat—a collar of moonstone and white gold, elegant and cool against your skin.

“Well,” she said softly, studying your reflection with the satisfaction of an artist admiring finished work, “if Prince Percy does not fall in love with you tonight, I shall consider it a insult to the crown.”

You gave her a flat look.

“If Prince Perseus falls in love with me tonight, I will push him into the nearest fountain.”

“That's a romantic beginning.”

“A necessary drowning.”

She laughed, and for a moment, so did you until the unmistakable sound of hurried footsteps in the corridor met your doors, by the sort of hushed excitement that only meant one thing.

Someone important had arrived.

You were seated before your mirror while two women debated whether your sleeves required more silver threading when the youngest maid in the room, Elia, abandoned all dignity entirely and rushed toward the balcony windows.

“He’s here.”

“Who,” you asked dryly, though everyone knew exactly who we were talking about.

Elia turned, eyes wide with scandal and delight.

“The Atlantean prince. Their carriage just passed the east gates.”

Half the maids abandoned all pretenses of professionalism and hurried toward the balcony like birds fleeing toward gossip, gathering at the stone rail with urgency. Even Lyra, who prided herself on dignity, and Lady Cassandra, who claimed not to care and still somehow arrived there first.

You remained seated for precisely three seconds before your own curiosity betrayed you.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, standing while your hands worked on your hair.

“Completely,” Lyra agreed, already pulling you with her. “Move.”

The balcony overlooked the eastern approach to Helion Keep, where the long marble road curved upward from the city gates through the royal gardens and into the palace courtyards below. From here, on clearer days, you could see nearly half the capital— with gold rooftops, white towers and fountains catching the sunlight.

Now, all you could see was a gathering.

Guards lined the lower courtyard in ceremonial armor; servants moved like frantic ants between columns; even stable hands lingered near the entrance steps, pretending not to stare.

And there, at the center of it all the carriage.

It was impossible to mistake.

Dark as stormwater, polished to a shine that reflected the palace walls around it, the royal carriage of Atlantis stood waiting beneath the archway like a threat wrapped in elegance. Silver detailing curved along its sides in patterns like waves and sea serpents, and the crest upon its door gleamed unmistakably.

Sea-blue banners shifted from its frame in the warm wind with the house mark and the horses were enormous, black and restless, their bridles silver-chained and immaculate.

“I expected something with more fish.”

“Perhaps the fish are inside.”

Elia gasped. “Do you think he really has scales?”

Below, palace officials were gathering near the carriage entrance. Your father stood at the front of them, beside him stood your brother, looking far too entertained by the entire affair.

What a traitor of a brother you had.

One of the younger maids whispered reverently, “Do you think he is handsome?”

Another replied, “I think if he survives meeting her highness, that will be impressive enough.”

One way or another, you didn't get much closer to the balcony like the rest of the maids; only one thought entered your head.

You imagined him inside.

Prince Percy Jackson, heir to Atlantis, commander of fleets, a professional nuisance before even introduction. Perhaps he sat there, enjoying the spectacle, fully aware that half your father’s court was holding its breath for the privilege of watching him step onto stone.

It felt like something an arrogant man would do. That decided immediately if true, you disliked him even more.

You got out of the thought when some of the girls screamed as one of the carriage doors unlatched, the silver handle turning.

And at that exact, divinely cursed moment, the wind changed. Strong mountain wind swept suddenly across the upper terraces, rushing through the balcony in a warm gust that sent every curtain in your chambers billowing like sails. The heavy balcony shutters—usually held open against the stone—slammed inward with violent force.

One struck the marble wall with a crack like thunder and the other shut directly across your line of sight.

Gasps filled the room.

“By the gods—” “Open it!” “I can't see anything—”

By the time the maids reached it, fumbling with the polished bronze latches and silk sleeves and collective despair, the moment below had already passed.

The royal family of Atlantis—whoever they were, however they looked, however much of your immediate future stood among them—were already hidden beneath the palace arches, swallowed whole by marble before your court could properly devour them with its eyes.

The maids stared in open heartbreak, the open doors of the carriage and people below starting to move again. However, you felt strangely calm; you really didn't know if you wanted to see your potential future husband.

The rest of the day went with going from one place to another just to actually prepare you until you were summoned to the Hall of Crowns. The sun had begun its slow descent behind the western cliffs, pouring molten gold through the palace windows and setting the entire world ablaze.

Helion Keep had always been built for this type of spectacle, but nowhere was that more obvious than the great hall.

It stretched the length of the central palace—vast marble columns veined with gold, ceilings painted with the victories of dead rulers, chandeliers of crystal and sunstone hanging high above like captured stars. The floors reflected everything: candlelight, silk hems, polished armor, ambition.

But today the halls of Helion Keep had been transformed for the evening.

Gold lanterns hung from the archways, casting warm light over the polished floors. Musicians played softly from the upper gallery, low harp notes mixing in the environment, it was elegant enough to soothe any temper and expensive enough to remind everyone who was paying all of it.

The long banquet tables stretched through the center of the hall beneath the banners of Solis and Atlantis hanging side by side in what looked, frankly, like a threat.

The sun crest and the sea crest. Gold and blue. Fire n' tide.

At the highest table, beneath the vaulted ceiling painted with gods, sat your father.

On the other end the Queen of Atlantis was exactly what you expected and somehow worse for it—beautiful in the cold way winter storms were beautiful, dressed in silver-threaded navy silk with pearls at her throat like captured moonlight. She looked like a woman who had never raised her voice because she had never needed to.

Beside her sat the King, taller than you expected, broad-shouldered and sharp-faced, wearing his own crown.

And then there was him.

At first, you almost missed him—not because he was a forgettable face, but because he was doing everything in his power to appear as though he would rather be anywhere else in the world.

He was not watching the room, the musicians or ladies laughing between them in a corner.

No, he was looking at his plate with total interest. As though the roasted figs before him had insulted his bloodline and he was deciding whether they deserved to survive being eaten.

For one brief moment, standing at the entrance of the Great Hall with the court pretending not to watch your reaction, you simply stared.

He was, annoyingly, very handsome. Well that was unfortunate.

His dark hair fell slightly untidy despite every visible attempt of the palace staff to make it look presentable with the prettiest sea-green eyes you've probably ever seen.

His face was sharp, with a marked jaw and perfect symmetry, the kind sculptors would spend lifetimes trying and failing to reproduce without accidentally starting religions. Maybe he was some sort of godl— anyways.

There was sun still left on his skin despite the sea kingdom’s colder reputation, bronze against navy silk and silver fastenings.

Beside you, Lyra made a sound suspiciously close to suppressed laughter.

You did not look at her. “Say nothing.”

“I said nothing.” “You were thinking loudly.”

“I am merely relieved for you, my lady. Marriage to a trout would have been very complicated.”

Suddenly there was no more room for private irritation, because your father had moved from his chair and stepped forward from the throne dais and the performance had begun.

“Her Royal Highness,” the herald announced, his voice carrying through the marble, “Princess of Solis, heir of the Sun Court.”

Every eye in the room found you as descended the staircase beside the hall entrance with all the serenity of someone not imagining murder.

The blue gown swept behind you like tidewater, the silver embroidery making soft sounds. The moonstone at your throat felt colder now. Every noble in the room watched as though trying to calculate exactly how much peace cost and whether you looked expensive enough to satisfy the other kingdom.

At the end of the hall, your father extended a hand as you took your place beside him.

Across from you stood the royal family of Atlantis and Percy.

Dear Gods up close was worse. Much worse!

Why couldn't you tear your eyes away from that man? Perhaps it was the surprise of not seeing any scales on his neck or hands. You weren't sure if it was 100% real, but hus skin had freckles on cheeks and hands. What you were certain of was that the skin peeking out from his neck showed a single dark freckle.

The banquet endured for what felt like several consecutive lifetimes. You smiled when required, spoke when demanded, and spent the rest of the evening discovering that there were very few things more exhausting than being discussed as though you were both present and decorative.

Every noble in Solis seemed to have developed an urgent and deeply insincere interest in your happiness.

Every lord from Atlantis looked at you with the politeness of men trying to determine whether you would eventually become their future queen or their prince’s most elegant mistake.

Neither possibility appeared to reassure them.

And at some point, beside you, Percy performed no better.

He was civil, which somehow felt more irritating than open hostility as he answered questions with practiced ease, nodded at all the correct moments, and wore the expression of a man enduring a hostage situation with remarkable restraint.

You caught him staring at the doors more than six times.

But you sympathized because the moment dessert arrived, you briefly considered setting something on fire simply to create an exit.

Unfortunately, your mother had raised you better than that. Your father, regrettably, had not.

It happened just after the final toast. The musicians softened into quieter melodies, wine had made several ambassadors far too confident, and the court had settled into that dangerous part of evening where everyone believed themselves subtle.

Your father leaned toward you with the expression parents wore when they were about to ruin their children’s lives.

“Walk with the prince.”

You turned slowly. “What? No.”

Across the table, Percy’s father was having what appeared to be the exact same conversation.

Percy looked up at you and also said no.

Two kings, separated by kingdoms and centuries of conflict, exchanged the silent understanding of fathers united by mutual disregard for their children’s preferences.

Your father smiled. “It was not a request.”

Naturally.

And so, several minutes later, you found yourself walking with your hand over the arm of Prince Percy Jackson through the western corridors of Helion Keep in a silence so pointed it deserved its own poem.

Two guards followed at a respectful distance, to pretend privacy existed.

Moonlight spilled through tall windows, silver against the marble floors. The evening had cooled; the palace breathed softer at night, its grandeur less performative in the quiet hours.

Your shoes clicked against the stone and his did too.

It felt like an argument waiting to happen.

At last, Percy stopped near one of the smaller receiving rooms overlooking the lower terraces and pushed the door open with the resigned courtesy of a man offering someone the chance to murder him indoors rather than publicly.

You entered first.

The room was big— with velvet chairs no one actually sat in, books no one read, a fireplace large enough to roast tension over properly. The balcony doors stood open to the warm night air, white curtains shifting softly in the breeze.

Behind you, the door closed.

And finally you guys were actually alone. There was no court, no musicians and no parents controlling all your interactions.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke until you turned to look at him.

“I am not marrying you.”

The words left your mouth without mincing words, like finally drawing a blade after hours of polite smiles.

Percy, leaning one shoulder against the door as though preparing for impact, nodded once.

“Yes,” he said. “I had assumed that might be your opening line.”

He had an annoyingly pleasant voice too.

He crossed the room slowly, stopping near the fireplace, hands folded behind his back like a prince would do.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I am also not particularly eager to marry you.”

“Good.” “Excellent.”

You stared at each other, it was going to be a problem if you two talked at the same time like that.

This, at least, felt honest.

You moved toward the balcony instead, needing distance, air and needing the moon to witness your suffering.

“I refuse to believe,” you said, looking out over the gardens below, “that two entire kingdoms have looked at centuries of bloodshed and decided the solution was forcing me to attend dinner with you forever.”

Behind you, Percy gave a quiet sound that might have been an agreement.

“I offered several alternatives,” he said. “Most involved gifting a bunch of ships.”

“How dare yo—” “And yet here I am.”

You turned back.

He had removed the formal mask, or perhaps simply grown tired of wearing it. Without the performance of the court, he looked younger and somehow more dangerous for it—less princely in a portrait and more like an actual man.

You folded your arms. “You wrote a very irritating letter.”

He sighed. “I was forced to write that letter under direct maternal supervision.”

“I could tell.”

“That should concern you. Imagine what I would have sent unsupervised.”

“I assume a blank page and an apology as PS.”

“You are optimistic, princess.”

Despite yourself, your mouth moved in a small smile that formed small dimples.

“You are still arrogant.”

“And you,” he said, with maddening calm, “are exactly as difficult as advertised.”

You narrowed your eyes.

There it was again—that infuriating ease, that careless confidence like he had never once in his life doubted his ability to survive the consequences of his own mouth.

You stepped closer.

“Let us be clear, Prince. I do not care how beloved you are in your charming sea kingdom. I do not care how many poets have embarrassed themselves over your face. I do not care how many battles you have won. I have no intention of becoming another admiring audience member in the Percy Jackson tragedy of excessive self-regard.”

He blinked as you talked and slowly, one corner of his mouth lifted.

“Oh,” he said softly, “you do have a vicious mouth.”

You frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

He stepped closer too, close enough that you could possibly count his freckles and your breaths could mingle if you both exhaled with your mouth.

“For a princess,” he said, voice low with an unmistakable amusement, “you are remarkably unladylike. I had expected elegance and grace.. Perhaps even a soft smile and some very refined passive aggression.”

You stared at him. He continued, clearly enjoying his own survival far too much.

“Instead, I find myself alone at night with a woman who looks like she might stab me with decorative cutlery.”

Your expression did not change. “Do you want me to prove it?”

“See,” he said, almost warmly now, “that. Exactly that. Very concerning. Not at all lady-like.”

“Percy.”

Your first time calling his name and it sounded like a warning in your mouth!

He seemed to like that far too much because he just leaned into your space. “Yes?”

“If you call me unladylike again, I will throw you from my balcony and tell both our kingdoms diplomacy simply failed.”

Private notes of Prince Percy Jackson.

Not intended for royal archives, review, or my mother’s deeply invasive curiosity.

If found, kindly throw it into the sea.

—

I was told, very firmly and by several people, that keeping a written record of this process might be “good for perspective.”

My mother said reflection builds character.

Annabeth, who I am increasingly convinced enjoys watching me suffer, said if I was going to be insufferable about this entire arrangement, I should at least be insufferable on paper where historians could mock me properly.

So here we are.

For the record, I hate it. I hate arranged marriages. And I hate political banquets.

And, perhaps most urgently, I hate the Kingdom of Solis.

That last one should probably be written down with some honesty, since this journal is meant to be useful and not simply an expensive place for me to complain.

In Atlantis, children are taught early that the sun burns just as easily as it warms.

I was raised to distrust them long before I was old to understand why and I'm pretty sure her highness the princess learned just the same way as I did.

In any case, I had heard rumors about the nobles who lived in the city where the royal family resided and how they looked non-human.

Dear journal, the truth is that I was expecting my future queen with fiery hair.

I have met her.

Unfortunately after weeks of council meetings, endless negotiations, and being informed by every living adult that marrying the Princess of Solis would be “historically significant” and “a stabilizing force for the future of both kingdoms,” I can now confirm that history is a malicious thing and should not be trusted.

I had, over the years, heard enough stories about the Sun Princess to build at least six entirely different women in my head.

Depending on who was speaking, she was either impossibly beautiful or terrifying enough to be a monster.

As a child, I was told she probably had claws! Which was fair, considering Solis spent most of my adolescence convinced I had the head of a fish.

Do I look like a trout? Do not answer that.

Still, when I looked up tonight and finally saw the woman I am apparently expected to spend the rest of my life married to, my first thought was not diplomatic at all.

It was, very specifically:

Oh, that is deeply unfortunate. She is beautiful.

Which is a disgrace, I would have preferred her hideous.

She looked like Solis itself had decided to become a person purely to be insufferable about it—elegant in that polished, sunlit way their entire kingdom seems to be, like she has been designed with the sole purpose of making the rest of us feel underdressed.

Beauty, in theory, should not matter. Entire kingdoms are not held together by bone structure and eye contact. Political alliances are not to become more complicated because the person across from you happens to look like the kind of mistake poets ruin themselves over.

And yet she walked into that hall wearing blue, looking like the best mistake to commit ever and for one brief moment I forgot what my mother had just asked me to pay attention to.

I suspect I am going to enjoy arguing with her and I also suspect it may eventually kill me.

The worst part—and I resent writing this—is that I understand why this marriage might work personally.

She would never disappear into someone else’s court, never let herself become ornamental or let anyone mistake the marriage for surrender of her house.

I would hate a wife I could intimidate.

She, I think, would hate a husband who tried.

So at least there is that.

Still, I remain opposed on principle. She is proud, difficult, and probably dangerous, very likely already planning how to murder me to escape this...

And I—sadly—am looking forward to seeing her again.

This is humiliating.

If anyone reads this, I will deny the part where I admitted she was is??? was pretty.

I would rather return to the fish head rumors.

—

The days that followed should, by all political expectation, have been the beginning of something graceful.

The royal betrothals were not promises of love between two people—they were negotiations, alliances and kingdoms trying to teach two unwilling heirs how to stand beside one another without looking as though they planned to commit murder before dessert 

And so your parents, in all their wisdom and complete disregard for your peace, would insist upon time spent together. 

Walks through the palace gardens beneath careful supervision for some bonding time, lessons on courtly customs and each other's culture or meetings with advisors who would explain, with grave importance, how one properly ruled beside someone they had known for six days and considered a trial sent by the gods.

You'd be made to sit beside him during council, to dine with him, smile beside him while old noblewomen whispered about some invented future heirs as though your body had become the public property.

And worst of all, to walk with him.

It would begin in the lower gardens of Helion Keep, where the white roses climbed the marble walls and the fountains had an incredible amount of decoration dedicated to the sun.

The Queen of Atlantis, Sally, suggested it first, with that serene expression she always wore and your father would agree immediately, because fathers were traitors by nature.

And before either you or Percy could invent a convincing plague, you would find yourselves dismissed beneath the late afternoon sun, sent walking together like characters in one of those terrible romantic poems old ladies adored.

He would offer you his arm because etiquette would demand it and you would take it because both your families watched from afar.

And for several long moments, you walked through the gardens of your childhood in a silence so stiff it might have qualified as architecture.

The sun hung low over Helion Keep, warm and golden against the white stone, turning every fountain to liquid fire. Jasmine climbed the walls in pale blooms, and somewhere beyond the terraces musicians practiced for some other noble event that with no doubt eventually will become your problem.

Beside you, Percy would walk like a man and not like a boy that gave you a headache every 30 minutes. His hand, where your fingers rested lightly at his arm, remained warm.

At last, he would speak.

“I have been informed,” he said, his voice carrying that calm, low amusement you were already beginning to distrust, “that I am expected to learn your favorite flowers.”

“How thrilling for you.”

“I thought so. Apparently this is considered courtship.”

The gardens opened wider here, into a terrace of columns and trailing vines. Below, the cliffs dropped toward the sea, and the wind carried salt even this high, threading through the warmth.

You slowed, so did he.

Percy stood a little apart from you now, though not by much, for the space between you had the uneasy quality of something negotiated rather than chosen, and even that small distance felt fragile beneath the weight of everything neither of you had yet said aloud.

When he spoke again, it was not with haste or provocation, but with a kind of careful deliberation that made it clear he was choosing each thought as though it might be later examined in a court of law.

“In Atlantis,” he began, gaze briefly shifting toward the horizon before returning to you as if measuring your reaction more than the view, “courtship is spoken of in far less poetic terms than I imagine your tutors have taught you here. It is not a matter of flowers, nor music, nor the pleasant illusion that two people might be gently guided toward affection by sufficient candlelight and well-timed conversation. It is instead spoken of as a kind of assessment, wherein one is placed in proximity to another and observed for signs of either compatibility or ruin, and from what I have gathered since arriving in your kingdom, Solis does not seem so different in its practices, only in the way it addresses it.”

You listened without interrupting, though your posture had already begun to harden in response, not because of insult alone, but because there was something irritatingly precise in the way he spoke—as though he had taken the time to learn your world and was now describing it without permission.

He continued, voice conversational in its restraint.

“I was told before arriving that your customs would require me to learn your preferences, and I admit I expected something far simpler, ornamental even, but what I find instead is that nothing here is truly ornamental at all, not your words, not your court, and certainly not you.”

That last part landed differently, though he did not emphasize it, and perhaps that was what made it worse.

You turned slightly toward him, the light catching the embroidery at your sleeve.

“In Solis,” you replied after a pause, your voice quieter now, though no less firm, “we are taught that endurance is not a performance, but a form of loyalty. That one does not measure affection by ease, but by whether something remains standing when ease is gone. It is not meant to be comfortable.” 

“For what it is worth,” he said at last, more subdued than before, “I did not expect you to be what you are.”

You glanced at him again, wary now, though not openly so.

“And what, precisely, did you expect me to be?”

Percy seemed to consider this with far more seriousness than the question deserved, “At first,” he said, “I expected red hair.”

You blinked once. “What?”

He nodded once, entirely unashamed.

“Yes, a hair that looked as though it might set curtains ablaze if left unattended. I was told your temper entered rooms before you did, and I thought it only courteous that your appearance should offer a similar warning.”

You stared at him for a long moment.

The late afternoon sun spilled gold over the terrace stones, warming the marble beneath your slippers, and behind you the palace stood bright and watchful, undoubtedly full of nobles who would have paid obscene amounts of money to witness this exact conversation.

“And who,” you asked at last, with dangerous calm, “told you such stupidity?”

“A diplomat from the western coast. Though in fairness, he also insisted I had gills and slept upright in seawater, so perhaps his judgment was not flawless.”

“That man was my uncle.”

Percy let out a slow breath.

“That explains a great deal.”

You should not have found that amusing.

Instead, you folded your arms and resumed walking, forcing him to follow as the path curved past white roses and sun-warmed stone benches built for noblewomen to sit prettily and discuss each other’s ruin.

“And besides the red hair?” you said. “What else did your vast intelligence lead you to expect?”

Percy fell easily back into step beside you, hands clasped behind his back with the infuriating ease of a man too comfortable while offending people.

“I expected someone softer, perhaps more inclined toward performance. Instead, I find someone who speaks like a knight denied wine.”

You gave him a look.

“How devastating for you.”

“Profoundly. I was hoping for an actual bride. Instead I seem to have been promised a very well-dressed goblin.”

You stopped walking again this time so abruptly he nearly took another step before catching himself.

The fountain beside the terrace murmured softly as you turned fully toward him.

“And what, precisely, makes you believe I would ever concern myself with being your bride?”

Percy tilted his head slightly.

“Your father. My mother. Approximately six kingdoms and one old priest.”

There it was again—that calm, infuriating smile, as though he found your temper not alarming but entertaining.

It made you want to commit crimes.

“And you,” you said sweetly, which was always a bad sign, “are far too pleased with yourself for a man who arrived in my kingdom looking like a little kid.”

He placed one hand over his heart in mock injury.

“You’re cruel, my lady.”

“I believe the word is accurate.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer with that easy confidence that made you want to throw things, “accurate would be observing that for all your pride, you are still only a very elegant little tyrant with the disposition of a churl.”

Silence fell as the fountain continued its cheerful betrayal.

You blinked once. “A churl... How dare you.”

He seemed, for the first time, to realize perhaps he had wandered too far but it was too late now. He continued anyway, because his self-preservation was not a skill taught.

“Yes, certainly, sharp-tongued, suspicious, and trying to look like royalty.”

You stepped forward.

“And you,” you said, with a voice low and terribly calm, “are a loggerhead in expensive boots.”

Percy opened his mouth, likely to make it worse, and you did not allow it.

With one sharp movement, both hands planted firmly against his chest, you shoved him backward. There was a brief, glorious second in which surprise overtook princely dignity entirely.

Then Prince Perseus, heir to Atlantis, commander of fleets, terror of the eastern sea fell directly into the fountain.

Water erupted upward in a magnificent, deeply satisfying splash that also dampened a little of your poor clothes.

For one perfect moment, there was only silence.

Then Percy surfaced, soaked, hair falling into his face, staring at you with the expression of a man reconsidering every decision that had led him here.

Water ran from his sleeves, hiis boots and his now wounded pride.

You stood at the edge of the fountain like divine judgment.

“Well,” you said, smoothing your skirts with composure, “at least now you may feel more at home. Do try not to call for dolphins. The palace staff is already overworked.”

For once—miraculously—he had nothing to say.

You inclined your head with all the grace expected of a future queen.

“Sleep well, Your Highness. Do give my regards to the fish.”

And with that, before he could recover either dignity or a reply, you turned and walked back toward the palace.

Your spine remained perfectly straight but your heart was beating far too fast.

Behind you, somewhere between outrage and shame, Percy shouted your name across the gardens.

Servants moved through the corridors with the discretion of people who absolutely knew everything that happened. Noblewomen spoke in soft voices behind jeweled fans. Somewhere, without question, your aunt had received three separate and wildly inaccurate versions of whatever unfortunate spectacle had occurred in the western gardens.

You had pushed the Prince of Atlantis into a fountain.

In your defense, he had deserved it entirely.

You sat before your mirror while Lyra adjusted the final fastening at the back of your gown, her silence was talking for her.

Finally she said, very carefully, “I hear His Highness required assistance returning from the lower terraces.”

You met her gaze in the mirror. “I am sure the fish were delighted to have him back.”

She pressed her lips together. “My lady.”

“He called me a churl.”

Lyra nodded solemnly, as though discussing matters of state. “A grave offense.”

That, apparently, was the end of the sympathy, because moments later she stepped back, satisfied with your appearance, and said with the merciless calm of a woman, “Try not to drown him again before dessert. It would create paperwork.”

“No promises.”

Tonight’s gown was softer than the first, though no less beautiful—ivory silk threaded with pale gold and your hair pinned back with pearl combs, your jewelry lighter.

The problem with dignity, you had discovered, was that it was very difficult to maintain when one was still remembering the exact look on a prince’s face as he disappeared into a fountain.

You should not have been pleased, but you were.

By the time you entered the Great Hall, dinner had already begun.

The chandeliers burned warm above the long tables, scattering gold across polished silver and crystal goblets. Music drifted from the gallery overhead, soft for you to be ignored and the banners of Solis and Atlantis still hung together in stately disapproval, as though even fabric objected to the arrangement.

At the high table, your father was already seated, speaking quietly with the King and Queen of the other kingdom. And Percy was not there.

That was interesting, and a minor annoyance since your site was still next to his, if he wasn't there it would be very noticeable and you would be bombarded with questions.

But lucky you were, Percy entered as you took your seat.

Changed, thankfully, into dry clothes, though whoever had assisted him clearly deserved a raise for attempting to restore dignity to a man recently defeated by the decorative architecture that was the fountain.

His dark hair was still slightly damp, curling at the edges and he wore deep navy tonight, embroidered in silver at the collar and cuffs, the color making the bronze of his skin warm beneath candlelight.

His mother looked up at him once, only once.

Her eyes moved from his still-damp hair to the faint scrape at one cuff, then toward you.

At last she said, in the calmest voice imaginable, “Did you enjoy the gardens?”

You looked very carefully at your plate and your father suddenly found his wine fascinating.

Percy, without breaking, replied, “Immensely.”

That was all, the queen gave a small smile, nothing more.

He sat beside you, the chair making the smallest sound against marble. You did not look at him and he did not look at you.

The dinner resumed for approximately twelve seconds.

Then your aunt— a menace and a professional destroyer of peace—leaned forward from halfway down the table and said, far too brightly, “It is so lovely to see young people spending time together before the formal engagement. There is such a difference between duty and genuine affection, is there not?”

You closed your eyes briefly as Percy took a very slow sip of his drink.

Queen Sally, bless her terrifying soul, replied, “Indeed. I find mutual understanding far more reliable than charm.”

Your aunt sighed dreamily. “And did the two of you enjoy your walk?”

Percy set down his glass, without turning his head to look at you, he said, “I found it refreshing.”

You kept your own smile perfectly in place.

“How wonderful. I thought you looked more relaxed afterward.”

“I nearly drowned.”

You ended up talking.  “And yet, bravely, you survived.” 

“Your disappointment wounds me.”

“Be patient. I am sure another opportunity will present itself.”

Across the table, your aunt clasped her hands.

“They are already teasing one another. How sweet!”

Private Journal of Prince Percy Jackson.

To be kept far from my mother, the royal council, and any servant. Should this be discovered, I will deny its existence, and possibly fake my own death. 

—

There are many ways in which a prince imagines humiliation may arrive.

One thinks of battles lost, of treaties broken in full view of rival courts, of saying the wrong thing before kings who remember such errors for decades and repeat them at every feast thereafter. One does not, generally, imagine that dignity will be destroyed by being pushed bodily into a decorative fountain by the woman one is expected to marry.

And yet, here we are.

I feel it important to record the event with complete honesty, if only because history has a terrible habit of making fools appear noble, and if I am to suffer, I would prefer future generations understand precisely how undignified the suffering was.

The fountain was cold... Needlessly cold.

It was also shallow and deep, which I suspect was an architectural decision made by someone who hated princes and wished to leave opportunities available for women with good aim.

There were swans nearby.

I do not know why this detail feels important, only that it does. There is something especially offensive about public humiliation occurring beneath the judgment of birds.

I had called her a churl.

In fairness, she had earned it.

In further fairness, I had perhaps underestimated how quickly a Princess of Solis might choose violence when presented with minor provocation. She did not argue nor threaten. She simply looked at me with the expression of someone reaching a deeply personal conclusion and then removed me from dry land.

Well, I was looking into those beautiful eyes and forgot I just insulted her.

There was one brief moment—one single, sacred second—where I understood exactly what was happening and had time only to regret my mouth and the long history of choices that had shaped it.

Then water and her.

She looked magnificent.

This is, perhaps, the root of the problem.

She stood there in all that royal composure, with sunlight on her dress, pearls catching the light, looking less like a princess and more like some old god of vengeance who had grown tired of patience and decided it was my time.

She told me not to call for dolphins.

And the worst part—the truly humiliating, soul-damaging part—is that I nearly laughed.

Not immediately, of course. At first there was outrage and a wounded pride. There was the cold and dripping indignity of climbing out of a fountain while two palace guards looked at the horizon in an effort to preserve everyone’s future.

But on the walk back, with my boots ruined and my dignity somewhere beneath a stone, I found myself trying not to smile like a complete idiot.

There is something alarmingly attractive about honesty when it arrives wearing pearls.

I dislike writing that and I dislike thinking about it even more.

The truth is that she is, for my disgrace, a little too much my type, which feels like a betrayal arranged by the gods for their own amusement.

I had hoped—sincerely and desperately—that she would be easier to resent.I wanted that the marriage could become little more than duty and I could respect from a distance and never think about after dinner.

Instead, I have been presented with a woman who looks at me like she is deciding whether I would improve the landscape as a corpse.

And apparently, for reasons I would rather not examine too closely, that is doing something to me.

She is proud and clever. She has pretty eyes, a beautiful smile and a lovely laugh.

This is not ideal in a future wife.

It is, however, very much ideal in the sort of woman one writes terrible poetry about.

I am trying not to be that man but it is not going well.

Every person in this palace speaks of the wedding as though it has already happened.

They discuss fabrics, who’s coming, the ceremonies, the joining of courts, the endless practical machinery of binding these kingdoms together, and all of it with that tone nobles use when speaking about your future as though you are not sitting directly in front of them holding a knife.

And then comes the matter of having heirs. I won’t enter in detail for my own good tonight. 

Thanks to my own terrible mind, I cannot hear it without thinking of her and is unacceptable.

I would like to return to simpler concerns, such as war because now I find myself in the middle of council meetings wondering absurd things, like whether she would teach our children to be crazy like her or whether they would simply inherit it naturally. Whether they would have her eyes when she is angry, or my talent for making situations worse.

This is madness.

I have known this woman for what feels like six minutes and one attempted murder.

I need to stop writing now, it's late and im writing strange things.

This journal is becoming evidence.

—

Time, unfortunately, did what time always did—make things more complicated.

It would have been far easier if Percy Jackson had remained insufferable in simple and obvious ways.

If he had been nothing more than a boy wrapped in expensive silk, with every conversation ended in some sort of offense and every shared glance in the mutual certainty that history had been correct and your kingdoms were better kept apart.

But Percy, infuriatingly, insisted on becoming a person that actually thought of you.

Weeks passed after the fountain incident, and with them came back the machinery of royal expectation. Walks through the gardens became routine rather than punishment, the shared dinners were unavoidable, but got ordinary. You sat beside one another during council meetings where old men argued over the borders as though none of them had created the problem.

You learned of his silence a lot, he grew quieter when he was truly angry.

He also had the infuriating habit of leaning back in his chair during council as though he were bored, only to speak once and somehow say the most sensible thing in the room.

He was kinder to servants than most princes bothered to be and he laughed rarely, but when he did it was sudden and unguarded, you kinda liked hearing it.

And worse was that he listened and not because the courtship required it.

When you spoke of Solis, of the southern provinces,even of the people your father’s council liked to reduce to numbers, Percy listened like he was trying to really understand you rather than simply waiting for his turn to be right.

You hated how much that mattered deep inside.

Well, he still annoyed you constantly.

He still smiled at the wrong moments and said things purely to test your patience or walked through your palace one poor decision away from being banned permanently.

The western library was one of the oldest rooms in the palace, built in stone that held the warmth of the day long after sunset. Tall windows opened toward the cliffs, beyond them the sea stretched and it smelled of old paper, candle wax, and the kind of silence only old places knew how to keep.

Percy was standing by one of the long tables near the windows, sleeves rolled to his forearms, reading through one of your father’s maritime records with an offended expression because of poor naval strategy.

You sat opposite him, pretending to read when you were actually watching him be irritated by other people’s incompetence.

It had become embarrassingly easy.

Weeks ago, you would have called him stupid for correcting your generals…

Now, you were beginning to suspect he was often right, but it was intolerable.

The room was quiet enough that the turning of a page sounded significant and outside, the sound of the sea seemed to be loud even when it was miles away.

Inside, Percy frowned at a map.

“This,” he said at last, tapping the parchment with the disapproval of a priest condemning sin, “is either the worst trade route I have ever seen or a very elaborate attempt of suicide.”

You looked up from your book. “It was designed by Lord Cassian.”

Percy glanced at you. “Wow, that explains everything.”

“Be careful,” you said. “If my father hears you insulting his council again, he may decide peace was a mistake.”

“Your father has watched me survive three formal dinners with your aunt. I believe he considers me battle-tested.”

“That is fair.”

He smiled then, faintly, and the way your heart jumped unsettled you in ways you were not prepared to name.

When did it become so easy? The arguments are softer and the silences easier in a way.

You had learned how he thought about some cultural things from your land or how when he was truly tired, he rubbed at the scar near his jaw without noticing or how his sarcasm came off when he was uncomfortable.

You had not meant to notice these things, really! You had certainly not meant to care.

And yet you do care and you do notice.

The candles burned lower, the sky outside was darkening as you two relied on the presence of the other.

Then came footsteps— fast and uneven. They weren’t the soft, practiced silent ones from the servants moving through the halls as though they were part of the walls themselves, nor the steady, unhurried tread of guards who carried all that armor. These steps were hurried, careless with panic, striking against the marble with force enough to pull both of you from the fragile stillness of the library.

A messenger appeared in the doorway, breathless and pale, his face drained so completely of color that for a moment you thought he saw a ghost. It was remarkable, the way fear could enter a room before a single word came.

Both of you stood at once.

That was another thing about being raised in courts—you learned young that there were expressions more powerful than announcements, that sometimes a single look could deliver catastrophe long before anyone dared say it aloud.

Something had happened and it was bad.

The messenger bowed quickly, the movement clumsy with urgency.

“My lady… Your Highness.” His voice was strained, and already your stomach had begun to turn.

“There has been word from the eastern coast.”

The silence got worse over the library, heavy and awaiting, even the crackling candles seemed to quiet. Percy straightened beside the table, every trace of ease disappearing from his posture, and you felt your own hands tremble a bit where they rested against the polished wood.

The eastern coast, close to the disputed waters.

The messenger swallowed hard, and in that small movement you could see how much he wished not to be the one delivering this.

“One of the Solis patrol ships near the border was attacked at dawn. It was intercepted near the reefs beyond Thalor Point.”

Your pulse slowed but not with calm, but with the kind of dread so deep it made everything inside you go frighteningly still.

“By whom?” you asked, though the answer was already gathering like a storm behind your ribs.

The messenger hesitated.

“Survivors report Atlantian sails.”

The sentence landed like steel driven through bone.

For a moment, no one moved. The room itself seemed suspended around those four words—the library, the candles flickering low, the endless sea beyond the windows, all of it held in place by that single sentence.

Atlantian sails.

Four words, and suddenly you were not standing in the palace library but sitting as a child in the history rooms, listening to your tutors show wars across faded maps with ink-stained fingers, marking coastlines where your people had drowned, where fathers and brothers and sons had vanished into the sea and never returned.

Atlantian sails.

Stories of burned ships with skeletons on black water and southern tides running red from the blood of your people.

Atlantis.

Beside you, Percy had gone very still.

He was no longer the man with you in the gardens, sunlight in his hair and teasing he pretended not to mean. Now he was simply that prince from Atlantis.

And suddenly, you hated how much that mattered to you.

The messenger continued, his voice low, careful, as though speaking too loudly might shatter what little peace remained.

“Three confirmed dead. Several wounded. The ship barely made it to port. The council has already been summoned.”

Every fragile month of peace—every dinner, every forced alliance, every diplomatic smile—is already beginning to splinter beneath the weight of that old suspicion.

You turned to Percy just to look at him.

At the navy silk draped over his shoulders and that impossible green of his eyes and suddenly it felt absurd—how easily you had let yourself forget what his name meant.

His gaze met yours, and there it was the same terrible understanding.

You still were enemies, maybe with better manners and almost let you forget you were enemies at all.

Your voice was colder than you intended, but perhaps honesty did that to you.

“Were they under your banners?”

Percy’s jaw tightened, and for the first time since you had met him, he looked like someone standing on the edge of a war he could not stop. “I do not know.”

You swallowed against the bitterness rising in your throat. “But they were yours.”

Something changed in his face then—not anger but for sure hurt.

You could feel the slow rebuilding of walls you had foolishly believed were coming down, stone by stone.

“They may have acted without orders,” he said, his voice controlled. “There are captains in disputed waters who still don't know about the new peace we are trying to create.”

You let out a short, humorless breath. “How convenient.”

His eyes narrowed. “Careful.”

You stepped forward, your fury demanded movement and standing there with his gaze trying to read you was too much.

“No,” you said, your voice cutting through the room with more force than you intended. “My people are dead.”

His answer came low and stripped of every softness you had come to know in him.

“And mine have died in those same waters for generations. By the Gods, do not speak to me like I don’t know.”

You folded your arms, it was the only way to stop your hands from shaking. You held his gaze and forced the question out.

“Then tell me honestly, Prince—if your council decides this was justified, if Atlantis claims those waters again, if this peace fractures the way everyone always said it would… where exactly do you stand?”

He did not answer immediately and to be honest, since you had met him, this was the first time you were afraid of what he would say.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet enough that it felt like a blade pressed carefully between your ribs. “Where I have always stood. With my people.”

Of course he did. What else had you expected?

All your conversations in the gardens could outweigh centuries of blood? That one prince could become something other than the sea he came from?

You nodded once. “As do I.”

You turned toward the door, if you looked at him one moment longer, you might say something unforgivable or ,even worse, you would cry.

To say that you walked to your quarters is something, because if anyone was to ask a servant about your wing, they would say that they heard muffled screams.

Your pillow is wonderful for screaming and letting out all your feelings.

The council chamber had been built for war a long, looong time ago so it's normal it sat beneath the oldest wing of the palace, part of the room was carved into the stone of the mountain, the walls were thick to keep secrets and you never saw windows open there, it was probably one of the darkest places in the whole kingdom. 

By the time you arrived, nearly everyone was already there.

Your father stood at the head of the great oak table, one hand braced against its edge. Beside him, your generals were gathered. Lords from the eastern provinces spoke in low, urgent voices.

Across from them stood the royal family of Atlantis.

King Poseidon looked exactly as powerful men did when forced to defend things they had not broken but would be expected to answer for all the same. The queen sat beside him, composed and still.

And Percy stood near his father, shoulders straight and the expression guarded.

You took your place beside your father.

The captain of the attacked patrol ship stood near the center of the room, arm bound in fresh linen and he looked exhausted.

Your father nodded once. “Speak.”

The captain swallowed.

“At dawn we were running patrol near the eastern reefs, close to Thalor Point. Visibility was poor, there was a lot of fog over the water, heavy enough to swallow the distance to the port. We spotted sails before we heard them.”

His voice roughened.

“Atlantian sails, they closed fast and were armed. There wasn't a signal offered bir request for passage.”

Your hands curled against the table.

One of your generals slammed a hand against the wood.

“Pirates do not fly royal banners.”

“No,” another lord said darkly, “but princes do.”

Across the table, King Poseidon’s expression hardened.

One of the eastern lords stepped forward, the grief making him brave and foolish in equal measure.

“For generations Atlantis has called those waters disputed only when it wished to steal them. How many treaties must we sign before your captains learn they do not own every place they can reach?”

Poseidon’s reply came like stone.

“And how many times must Solis build fortresses along shared waters before you stop calling expansion defense?”

The argument erupted with that, the voices rose, accusations started to fly over your head, some maps were unrolled and the borders stabbed at.

You had grown up watching councils like this from doorways, hidden behind the pillars while adults argued over the shape of your future.

Through all of it, Percy remained silent with his hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on the maps and his jaw tight betraying what the rest of him refused to show.

When he finally spoke, it cut cleanly through the noise.

“If my father had ordered an attack,” he said, voice steady, “you would not be debating whether it happened.”

Every eye turned to look at the boy as he continued.

“This was not sanctioned by Atlantis. If we intended war, you would not be receiving apologies. You would be receiving fleets.”

One general sneered. “Don't be conceited, kid.”

“I’m honest,” Percy said. “That’s something both our kingdoms claim to value when convenient.”

Your father watched him carefully. “And what do you propose, Prince?”

Percy stepped toward the table.

“Find the captain responsible before this becomes an excuse for every man in the room to indulge a war already wanted.”

One of your lords laughed sharply. “And we are simply to trust Atlantis to investigate itself?”

“No,” Percy replied. “You are to trust that I would not stand here defending cowards. If an Atlantian captain attacked under our banners without command, then he has endangered not only your men but my kingdom. I will not protect him.”

Your father studied him for a long moment and then looked at you not as king but as your father.

He wanted your judgment because everyone in this room had seen the walks, the dinners and the fragile attempt at peace between heirs. Your opinion mattered.

You looked at Percy and you realized with sudden, miserable clarity that both things were true.

He was the enemy and he was not.

Your voice, when it came, was measured. “If this was unsanctioned, then the guilty should answer for it.”

The dark-haired young man gave a small smile while you were speaking.

“If Solis answers blood with blind blood, then we are not defending peace. We are merely admitting we never wanted it.”

One of the generals muttered, darkly with the suspicion of a man who had buried many friends. “And if Atlantis lies?”

Your father said nothing, King Poseidon’s expression didn't give away his thoughts and several lords shifted, preparing for another round of arguments. 

But to your surprise Percy stepped forward.

The prince of Atlantis stood beneath the torchlight, shoulders straight, gaze steady, looking not at the general asking but at you.

When he spoke, his voice carried cleanly through the chamber. “If Atlantis lies, then let the blame fall first upon me.”

Percy did not look away.

“I stand with my people,” he said, now it was only the truth stripped bare to hurt. “I always will. I am the son of Atlantis before I am anything else. Its blood is mine, its burdens are mine, and if war comes, I will stand before it, not behind.”

Your breath had been expelled from your lungs, this mattered because that was his answer.

Yet he continued.

“But do not mistake loyalty for blindness.”

His eyes remained on yours.

“If one of ours has done this—if an Atlantian captain sailed beneath our banners and spilled Solis blood for vengeance, or for the comfort of hatred—then I will not defend him. I will drag his name into the light myself.”

Percy’s voice lowered but no less steady for it. “I did not come here to inherit another century of graves.”

You opened your mouth to give an answer but he didn't let you talk.

“And I did not come here to ask for peace only to betray the woman I intend to have beside me.”

The words struck harder than the shouting of men in the room and across the table, your aunt nearly stopped breathing from joy.

Percy, apparently, had chosen violence against your heart.

Indeed your heart was betraying you in ways you intended to punish later.

“When I say I stand with my people, Princess, understand that I do not separate you from that future.”

Your throat felt dangerously tight.

“This marriage was meant to quiet kingdoms. Fine. Let it begin there. Let duty open the door if it must. But I will not stand in this chamber and speak of alliances as though you are merely another clause written into a treaty.” 

It's not like the room has disappeared, your father was still there, everyone was still there and somehow at the same time none of it existed.

It was only him and his softening voice.

“If you become my wife, you will not be an obligation I endure for peace. You will be my queen. Mine to honor before courts and councils, mine to protect when kingdoms are against us, mine to stand beside—not behind, you'll never be behind.”

You felt like you were going to faint when your brain reacted: he was in front of you and, and painfully slowly, knelt on one knee to take your hands, which were trembling like leaves.

“And if I must choose between disappointing old men who worship war and disappointing the woman I would ask to rule beside me, then let the gods hear me plainly now—”

His gaze held yours like a vow was being made.

“—I would sooner let kingdoms burn than fail her.”

Terrible, magnificent silence.

And you— you stood there with your trembling hands and jumping heart, trying very hard to remember how breathing worked.

Because Percy Jackson, prince of Atlantis, had just declared such love words in the middle of a war council.

Like an idiot! A beautiful, infuriating idiot.

Your father cleared his throat once, but his mouth showed a small smile and King Poseidon looked at the ceiling, perhaps asking the gods for quieter sons.

“Your Highness,” you said, “that was either the most persuasive political argument I have ever heard…or the most elaborate public courtship attempt in history.”

At last—finally—Percy smiled.

“Can it not be both?”

By the time the council chamber had finally emptied, the palace had fallen into a peculiar silence only the deepest hours of night could create, when even the walls seemed exhausted by the weight of the day and every corridor felt longer than it had in daylight.

You were walking quickly to your chambers with your cheeks getting deep in color.

It wasn’t like you were fleeing, you refused even in your own mind to call it that! 

If you slowed and allowed yourself even a single moment of stillness—you would have to think, and thinking, after what had happened in that council chamber, would have your head spining.

Your pulse had not yet remembered to behave like normal.

Your father had said nothing as you left, which was infinitely worse than if he had chosen to give you both a talk.

Your aunt, on the other hand, had looked radiant with a kind of joy usually reserved for coronations and public scandals, and you had no doubt whatsoever that by morning she would have transformed Percy’s words into some elaborate thing involving grandchildren.

You intended never to forgive either of them.

Percy had stood in the middle of a war council, before your father and his own, before generals and men and all the hatred your kingdoms had spent centuries perfecting, and had looked at you as though vows were so simple.

As though loving you was not about the war.

You hated him for that but hated yourself more for the terrible, humiliating truth that part of you had wanted him to say it again.

Behind you, footsteps were approaching.

You already knew the sound of his damned boots, the irritating calm of a man who had just dismantled your entire peace of mind and still believed he had the right to continue speaking.

“Princess.”

You kept walking. “No.”

There was a brief silence behind you, followed by the unmistakable sound of him quickening his pace, and then his voice again, closer now.

“Unfortunately, that is not specific enough to be useful.”

You reached the turn of the corridor with every intention of continuing, of disappearing into your chambers and locking the door firmly and condemning every poor decision your life had made as suddenly his hand closed around your wrist.

The movement stopped you so abruptly your breath caught and your pulse betraying you in one violent, humiliating motion.

“Let go.”

Percy stood close enough now that the corridor seemed smaller for it and his voice, “No.”

The sheer audacity of him!

You stared at him with all the fury you could still afford.

“In case the council chamber was not sufficient humiliation for one evening, have you now decided that physically restraining foreign princesses is the next great strategy in mind?”

“I decided,” he said, “that if I let you walk away now, you would spend the entire night being furious and I would spend the entire night with no rest, so I find both possibilities intolerable.”

Your fingers curled tightly at your side. “You should have considered that before declaring yourself like some mad knight in front of everyone.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping half a pace closer, “strangely enough, I do not regret it.”

“That makes one of us.”

His gaze searched yours, he had the prettiest gems as ocular globes… and those puppy eyes…

“No,” he said softly. “It doesn’t.”

You tried to pull your hand free as he did not tighten his grip, but neither did he release you.

“Look at me.”     “I am looking at you.”

“No,” he said, “you are trying very hard not to.”

“How dare you.”

Percy’s thumb shifted slightly against your wrist, a small movement, barely anything, and somehow it felt more intimate than if he had kissed you then and there. Why did your brain think of kissing him so bad?

“I am beginning to think,” he was giving a small laugh away, “that is how most of our important conversations begin.”

“In the council chamber, in front of both our kingdoms, you spoke as though—”

His expression changed then, the prince receding and the man remaining.

“As though what?”

You lifted your chin. “As though I mattered to you beyond treaties and borders and that noble performance you were attempting to offer your audience.”

For a moment, he just looked at you as he released your wrist.

“Did you truly think I would say those things for politics?”

Your throat felt tight with the answer and your voice lowered despite yourself as if you were scared someone heard.

“Did you mean it?”

Percy held your gaze with no wit left between you to hide behind.

“Yes.”

Your heart betrayed you immediately.

You hated it and hated him for making the truth sound reachable.

So like a fool, you made it worse. “Which part?”

His brow moved faintly.

“The peace? The alliance? The declaration dramatic enough to shorten my father’s life by several years?”

You stepped closer despite yourself, because if you were to be ruined, you would at least be honest in it.

“No,” you said, quieter now. “Not that. Me… Did- Did you mean me?”

“You are the only part of this I’m certain about, my lady.”

He lifted his hand again, slower this time, but it didn’t go to your hand or wrist, oh no, his fingers touched your jaw.

“I would stand with my people,” he said. “I would fight for them, bleed for them, carry every duty they place upon my name. But none of that changes what I know when I look at you.”

His thumb brushed lightly against your skin, and gods, if you really kissed him would it be so bad?

“I did not expect you and I certainly did not want this. It would have been simpler if I disliked you. Simpler if you were merely beautiful, or merely cruel, or merely someone I could survive beside without ever truly seeing.”

His fingers caressed your cheek. “But you are none of those things.”

Your voice was barely yours. “And what am I, then?”

His gaze dropped to your mouth like he no longer intended to fight.

“You are the woman I would choose even if peace didn’t demand it. You are the person I find myself thinking of when I should be thinking of fleets and the thousand practical things princes are meant to care about.”

Your mouth gave a smile as your hands went to his chest, “You are insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, his forehead nearly brushing yours now, “you are still holding.”

That was enough. You kissed him first.

It was a kiss with weeks of restraint collapsing under its own weight, anger and relief and want and the unbearable certainty that somewhere between hating him and understanding him, you had become hopelessly and disastrously attached.

His hand moved to your waist, yours caught at his collar.

Someone—perhaps both of you—made several decisions neither kingdom would approve of and history would likely judge harshly.

It was absolutely inappropriate for a palace corridor three floors from your father’s chambers but it was perfect.

And when you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested lightly against yours, and for a moment neither of you spoke, because some things, once they happened, made language feel smaller than it had before.

If it weren't for the fact that your entire body and mind were so focused on the prince in front of you, you would have sworn it was a lie when Percy exhaled softly “I love you”.

Private Journal of Prince Percy Jackson.

To be kept far AWAYYY from my mother, the queen. 

—

This was meant, when first I began it, to be a record of my path to discipline and thought, of the observations expected of a prince who intends one day to rule without error, and yet tonight I find that it has become something far less dignified, for I am writing not of things involving this nor even of the fragile peace that holds our kingdoms apart, but of her. 

We kissed. 

I attempt to write it with composure, to frame it as an event of little consequence, an impulsive misstep best forgotten by morning, but the truth refuses this, and so I am left with the plain, humiliating admission that we kissed in a corridor and now has become a place I will not be able to pass again without remembering it in full. 

She smiled, and I find that I cannot write that simply and move on, for it was not the smile she offers in court nor the sharper one she uses as a weapon.

It felt—  No, I will not write that.

I told her that I would choose her, that even if peace had not demanded this union, even if our kingdoms had never thought to bind us together in the hope of ending centuries of bloodshed, I would still choose her, and I said it without calculation, without weighing consequence, as though the truth of it required no consideration at all.

This is not how I have been taught to speak and is not how I have been taught to think.

And yet it is how I spoke, and worse, it is how I meant it.

At one point, in what I must classify as a complete collapse of discipline, I found myself writing—

my wife, my wife, my wife

I find the word returning with an ease that suggests this is not a passing thought but a developing problem. 

my future wife

No, that is worse, for it implies expectation rather than an actual thing happening, and I refuse to grant my own thoughts that level of confidence.

the woman I am to marry

This is correct but insufficient because she’s going to be my queen.

I may have developed the need to have her by my side forever.

—

How did you end up in this situation? I mean, yes, it was your wedding night and the marriage was supposed to be consummated, you got prepared for that, but you were hoping to have a few drinks, talk to your dear parents and family, and... Seriously, all because of a tradition? 

One moment there was the ceremony still clinging to the air like heavy perfume— with the oaths spoken and the weight of a thousand watching eyes pressing down—and the next, everything broke into motion, into sound, into laughter and applause.

Men and women of the court, soldiers and even the attendants who only moments before had been standing like statues, now moving with a jubilanty as though this had always been the point of the entire affair.

Someone spoke your name in celebration and suddenly the ground left you.

The sudden loss of ground startled something unguarded in you, your hand instinctively catching at the nearest solid thing—which, to your immediate and profound irritation, was Percy.

He, too, had been taken by surprise, though he hid it better, his posture adjusting as several men hoisted him upward with far less ceremony than you had been granted, the contrast not lost on anyone present.

Some women tried to take the various fabrics and pearls you were wearing, but they were only able to take out shoes and accessories in your hair.

A roar of approval rose through the hall.

“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice carrying to reach you over the noise.

You held his gaze, refusing to let the situation unbalance you further than it already had.

“If I fall,” you said, your tone even despite the circumstances, “I shall ensure you are blamed for it.”

There were petals on the way—scattered, thrown, caught in your hair and on your dress, their scent sweet.

The doors ahead grew fewer, more private.

And then, at last, you reached it; your shared chambers.

The doors were thrown open with force, the room beyond lit in warm gold, prepared in a way that left very little to the imagination of anyone who had arranged it.

You were carried inside first and set down with far more care than you expected, your feet meeting the soft bed.

A moment later, Percy was lowered beside you.

The noise lingered at the threshold as the last of the laughter and well-wishes spilling inward before the doors began to close, as though savoring the final moments of public presence before sealing you both as newly weds.

Your eyes really didn't know if they could meet those of your now husband; the room felt warmer than the fireplace should been able to bring.

Percy pushed himself up, his breaths heavy from the rough handling, and for you saw his body. The suit, a tailored thing of midnight wool with silver accents, had already been loosened during the toasts, all the buttons undone at the chest, exposing the tanned planes of his torso.

He moved first, sliding off the bed to kneel at its edge and moving you with him.

Your now husband caresses the fabrics; the wedding dress is heavy on velvets, rich wools, golden embroidery, and pearls. The truth is, it's not very easy to remove.

The bed was high, so you basically could see him, and damn, why was he on his knees fiddling with your silky clothes? 

His fingers tugged at the layers of the dress, bunching the velvet skirts up your thighs. The fabric was so pretty on you but he wasn't sad about taking it off if he could connect with your body and you. 

His fingers, callused from sword hilts and rigging sails, tugged at the laces of your gown, but the thing was a fortress of fabric, heavy with wools and pearls that resisted his impatience.

“Fuck this,” he muttered, voice low and rough, like gravel under boots. 

He wasn't gentle about it, yanking at the bodice until the golden threads strained and exposed the swell of your breasts to the cool air. You gasped, but he didn't stop, his hands roaming lower, bunching the skirts up to your hips. 

God, he didn't have enough patience right now to take all your clothes off properly so the poor wedding dress stayed half-on. 

His mouth was on you before you could catch the breath, hot and insistent, trailing kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You felt the scrape of his stubble, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your dressed core, making your pussy clench in anticipation. 

Percy Jackson, the man you hated so much, was now parting your legs with those strong hands, his eyes dark with want. 

He hooked one arm under your knee, spreading you wider, and then his fingers were there—the rough fingerpads brushing against your underwear and finally swollen folds. 

You were a soppy mess, slick from the tension of the day and the way he'd been staring at you during the vows, like he was undressing you with his gaze alone. 

“You're soaked,” he growled, a hint of approval lacing his tone as he slid one finger along your slit, teasing the entrance before pushing in slowly. 

The stretch was immediate, his touch firm but not rushed, circling your clit with the thumb while that finger curled inside you. 

Oh gods, his mouth was so close now, lips brushing your thigh as he licked a stripe up the soft skin, tasting the salt of your anticipation. Your hips bucked involuntarily, chasing the heat, and he chuckled against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. 

Then finally, you felt the first lick of his tongue—flat and broad, dragging over your pussy with such slowness. His tastebuds rasped against your sensitive flesh, the slightest inch of his tongue squeezing in alongside his finger, probing deeper. 

It was messy, the sounds of his breath filling the room as he lapped at you, sucking gently on your clit before delving back down.

To say that you were euphoric at this moment would be an understatement because you had possibly just opened the gates of heaven.

But still… still you felt nervous, with a million thoughts going on when his mouth connected your most intimate zone and so the words blurted out theirself.

“Wait.. I'm not,” a small moan comes out. “I’ve never done this before..”

His mouth, pink and wet with your juices, lets out a small sigh, “I’ve never participated in these activities either.”

His cheek rests against your thigh, looking up before muttering against your folds. “I learn as I wend.”

And unfortunately, the only thing you can do in response is with your hips, moving them slightly against him as a new wave of slick follows.

Percy won’t make you wait.

In no time his tongue has lapped all those juices and entered your cunt alongside his finger, trying to get more and more of the sweet flavor you are giving him, maybe he’s just getting addicted.

Again and again, you find yourself dragging out desperate pushes of your hips against his mouth— riding your sensitive cunt down his straight nose and making it push on the button of your swollen clit. 

You mewled, the pressure building fast, maybe too fast and he responded with a tiny slap to the cute nub! Even a glob of his spit mixed with your slick, and he rubbed it nice and good with your cunt, fingers circling and thumb pressing sloooow until you feel your walls fluttering around another invading finger— stretching you wider, his pads pressing against your squishy g-spot  making stars burst behind your eyelids. 

“Be honest with me,” Percy murmured against your skin, his voice muffled and lips slick with you. “Like your pussy is…Tell me when you're close.”

Gods, why couldn't you just say it? The words stuck in your throat as he worked you relentlessly, dragging out your orgasm so lengthily, his tongue tickling your constantly throbbing clit while his fingers pumped in a rhythm that had you arching off the bed. 

“How are you so good at this?” you gasped finally, voice breaking as the edge rushed up. “Is this your first time? Are you kidding me?”

He pulled back and gave a grin, chin glistening and eyes wicked. “First time, princess. But I've dreamed about eating your cunt plenty.” No joke in his tone, just raw truth that made your core tighten. 

“You do kiss- ah.. you do kiss your mother with that mouth…”

“As of now I'm kissing something sweeter.”

He dove back in, sucking harder, and you shattered, waves crashing through you as your pussy clenched around his fingers with slick gushing out. Percy didn't let up, milking every pulse until you were trembling, oversensitive and boneless.

You laughed breathlessly, pulling him up for a kiss that tasted of you. 

But the heat didn't fade; it built. 

Percy stood, shedding the rest of his loosened suit with quick, impatient jerks. Finally, you saw it—his cock pulsing, fat with red veins snaking along the length. A sensitive slit at the tip, already beading, and heavy balls hanging low. 

He wasn’t just needy, he was ravenous, the angriest reddened tip flushed like it had a grudge.

He manhandled you onto the bed properly, moving you onto your back with hands that gripped your hips hard. 

It was both of your first times, and lord, he was just using his tip to fuck you—rubbing the head along your slit, teasing the entrance without pushing in. 

He was big, there was no way that would enter your poor pussy.

The stretch was immediate when he tried to push into your orifice, a burn that made you whine, but it mixed with the ache he'd already stirred.

You didn't know who was more pussy-drunk or cock-drunk—you, with the way your walls fluttered greedily, or him, groaning like a man possessed as he nudged in. Just a few more inches out of the numerous ones eased inside your cunt with the most lecherous sounds as if your clingy walls were trying to suck him up and weren't able. 

You were addicted to the way his girth was molding your channel to him, stretching wide, the burn blending into pleasure that had you clawing at his shoulders.

You guys started fighting a bit then—playful, your hands pushing at his chest as he tried to sink deeper, him pinning your wrists with one hand while the other guided his cock. 

“Stop squirming,” he laughed breathlessly, but you twisted, half-protesting the overwhelming fullness, half-pulling him closer. 

“It's not- Oh fuckkk- It's not going to fit-!”

Percy looked down, seeing that there was still some way to go, his cock was screaming in agony, needing to feel you squeeze him to oblivion, and that's how his hands released your wrists.

But it wasn't until you felt his hands on your legs that you understood what he was doing, lifting them up to his shoulders and beeeending you until your legs were giving him the perfect space.

“It has to fit, fit, fit, fit...” His hips moved like a piston, trying to fill you up until the sound of a resounding wap! echoed.

He finally made it fit, bottoming out with a shared groan that left you both dumb at the feeling, brains short-circuiting from the tight, hot clasp and his balls slapping your skin.

Percy started pumping then with no intention of giving a small break, the thick, vein-puffed length of his cock from tip to base to thwack! and plap! your cervix wetly. 

The man was breathing heavily as his hips continued to make the luxurious bed creak over and over again, letting out small grunts that matched your joyful moans.

Your vision blurred when a hand wandered down to give tiny slap slap slaps to your reddened clit, body arching as pleasure bordered on too much, slick coating his shaft and dripping down your thighs.

Percy watched you, transfixed, his own control fraying in a matter of seconds—when he saw the tears streak your cheeks, the way your mouth fell open in silent pleasured cries, he couldn't hold it. 

“Shit—you're—” He really couldn't hold it, hips stuttering as he filled you, hot spurts of cum flooding deep. Your cunt leaked out in both slick n’ his seed, the mess dripping onto the sheets.

The poor guy was trying to pull that high out of you, trying to wrench it as he gave you a puppy look, he just needed you to cum again. And you did, crashing over the edge with a big cry you muffled by biting his shoulder, teeth sinking into the muscle as your walls spasmed around him, milking him dry. 

Percy was fucking you sloppily, the rhythm erratic as his cock dragged through the mess he'd made. His fingers reached down, joining to plug you up. 

Aah, lucky you both were married because for sure he bred you, and in this moment, you were drooling into the cushions, dumb on it, your body limp and buzzing. 

He laughed, dizzy and breathless over your look, collapsing half on top of you, his weight a grounding heat. 

“Look at you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple, affectionate even in the haze as you rolled onto your stomach, expecting him to rest next to you, catch his breath but oh no no no—he was playing with his cum between your legs, fingers scooping the leaking seed and rubbing it back in, making you whimper. 

Your man pushed up your hips, ass in the air, and you felt the blunt press of his cock against your stuffed cunt again. “Can't just stop at one,” he said, voice teasing as he eased in, the stretch easier now with the slick mess. 

You moaned into the cushions, face buried, as he started thrusting shallowly. 

He even joked, breathing hot against your ear, “Ship's arriving at the port—hope it's ready for round two.”

You managed a weak “Don't mess around,” but it dissolved into a gasp as he fucked deeper, his cock pushing out globs of his own cum, mixing it with your fresh slick. 

Your pussy was red from the smack of his hips against your ass, swollen and tender, and his pubic zone was also messy with your fluids, dark curls matted, and you heard the wap! plap! plap! sounds echoing—wet, obscene, driving you both wild.

Percy was so loving even when teasing you, one hand stroking your back while the other gripped your hip, pulling you back onto him. 

“You feel incredible,” he groaned, pace quickening, the lewd squelches growing louder as he chased his release. Your body responded despite the ache, walls clenching around him, drawing him in deeper as he came inside once more, hard and sudden, flooding you until it was just an overspilling mess, thick ropes leaking down your thighs in rivulets.

The citadel's bells tolled midnight outside, but in the chambers, the real merging had just begun. Percy pulled out slowly and you both collapsed in a tangle of limbs and rumpled sheets. 

His arm draped over you, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. “Think we can skip the morning feast?” he asked, voice muffled against your shoulder.

You chuckled, turning to face him and a hand coming up without thinking, brushing a loose strand of his hair back from his forehead.

“The court would consider that a declaration of war.”

Percy shifted slightly closer, as though the space between you had become completely unnecessary. There was none of the earlier tension left in him now, none of the heat or provocation—just a look of love in his eyes.

“Then we are already off to an excellent start as a married couple,” he said.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The bells outside faded into silence, the palace beyond your chambers distant and irrelevant, as though the world had politely stepped away to allow this peace to exist without interruption.

You studied him in that quiet—the way the torchlight softened the features of him, the way he looked at you now without challenge or the distance between kingdoms that had defined everything between you.

Your fingers drifted from his hair to his cheek, resting there lightly.

“They will expect us,” you said after a moment.

“They can expect whatever they like,” Percy replied, his gaze soft on yours. “We’ve already done everything they required of us.”

Your hand slipped from his face, but he caught it before it could fall away entirely, threading his fingers through yours. 

You exhaled softly, letting your forehead rest briefly against his.

“Just this once,” you said quietly, “we stay.”

“A generous decree,” Percy murmured, his voice low with sleep and softer, it did not sound like the prince who argued in the council chambers or provoked you in gardens. “I should thank my wife for such mercy.” 

“Do not grow accustomed to it,” you replied with a small laugh. “I grant it only because you have ensured that walking tomorrow would be… unnecessarily difficult.” 

“I see,” he said slowly, as though considering this with more seriousness than it deserved, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Then I must accept this kindness with proper gratitude, my queen.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Careful,” you warned, though it lacked the bite it once would have carried. “You will make a habit of saying things you cannot take back.”

“I do not intend to take them back.” His thumb moved faintly against your hand, absent and thoughtful. “We could go for a walk in the morning to see your favorite flowers.”

“Sleep,” you said. “If you insist on embarrassing us both in the morning, you will at least require the rest.”

A faint breath of laughter escaped him at that as his arm tightened around you.

“As you command,” he murmured. “My love.”

♡ 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

♡ 𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⸝⸝ 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐲 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

💭: Guys this is not proofreaded LIKE 70% sooo hopefully you won't find many weird typos or stuff TT Still I'm reallly happy because I don't tend to write such long oneshots, yippieeee!!

[ve30la]

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